Pickman's Muse
by Koboldlord
Summary: Alexander Blackwood has saved the United Commonwealth. With the raiders smashed and Institute destroyed he plans to meet with the leaders of the Capital Wasteland and begin an alliance that will bring a lasting peace. But one man will take his perfectly ordered world and turn it upside down until Alexander is fighting to hold on to anything he loves. [MSSXCait]
1. The Depths

**This story is, in one sense, a squeal to "Broken Lookout," yet on another stands on its own. I'd personally recommend reading that story, along with my oneshots "The Right thing," "The Bunker," and "Some Kind of Family," But it isn't necessary. I hope you enjoy this epic tale of fear, heroism and revenge.  
**

* * *

 _Dear Diary: Today I had the most fascinating encounter…._

* * *

Slag clutched the incinerator in his hands, wishing desperately the heat from the weapon would expel the chill running up and down his back. Despite the nature of his flamethrower it did no such thing, probably because, despite the late fall season, it was actually still fairly warm for the month and the cool touch he felt was not at all related to the weather.

The raider stood at his post, gazing down at the shattered remains of the former Dunwich Borers, a mining shaft opened up by the pre-war company with the same name. At least, according to the old files and digging equipment the raiders had discovered when they'd moved into the area, or rather the first and now long gone, raider group had. Somehow, the granite crack deep into the earth, menacing as it was, wasn't what caused Slag the most concern. That was the actual entrance to the mine proper, an area now sealed off by rubble. Down far below in the cavernous space the few remaining raiders in Slag's band were digging away at the cave-in, working methodically with far more energy than Slag was used to; being one of the last surviving raider bands clinging to life in the United Commonwealth taking any job that paid, and doing it well, was essential for survival.

"I've got to wonder why the hell the Minutemen sealed this place," Razer mused, striding up to Slag, pipe rifle clutched in his hands. "It took a ton of explosives to bring that tunnel down and this was back when Garvey's boys were nothing but small fish in the pond." The raider visibly shivered, and Razer wasn't the kind of man who spooked easy.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Slag responded, aiming the flamer towards the pile of shattered concrete and steel burying the tunnel into the Borers proper.

"Right, you were Forged back then." Razer slung the rifle under his arm, fidgeting around in his pocket for the container of Jet that he'd stashed away at some point during the escape from Quincy. "You guys were holding out in that old steel mill, trying to burn those ghouls in the Slog before General Alexander and the Minutemen killed the lot of you." Retrieving the little container of plastic, Razer took a huff of the Chem, letting a sigh of contentment ripple outward as the drug took effect.

"The Forged were the deadliest band in the Commonwealth!" Slag rumbled shoving his body towards Razer with flamer in tow, "We were stronger than the Gunners! Stronger than the Mutants!"

"And I used to be a Rust Devil! So don't bullshit me about how badass your band of killers used to be, because the Minutemen stomped the shit out of you just like every single one of us! Look around, Slag!" He gestured outward to the rag-tag band of killers below doing their best to dig out the tunnel while their mysterious employer looked on, "We're doing odd jobs for creepy rich guys now, hiding on the edge of Minutemen territory because, if we piss 'em off, they come down like a hammer! If not them, the Brotherhood flies in on a Vertibird and we're just as dead!" He took another hit of Jet, letting the chem carry him away to a better place, "We just need to accept things."

"Whatever," Slag muttered shifting his stance to a more relaxed posture, aiming the gently smoking tip of his weapon towards the ground, "What were you saying about the Borers?"

"Right," Razer shook his head, clearing the cobwebs from his mind, "Dunwich didn't get sealed in during the war," he shuddered. "I knew a guy who used to be part of the raider band living out here. One day they grabbed some dumb bitch from one of the farms, I don't even remember which one. Huge mistake. The Minutemen fall on the place, shooting the shit out of everyone and grab the bitch. I don't know exactly what happened, seeing as no one came out alive, but next time I stopped by the Borers the place had been sealed up. Apparently Blackwood brought artillery fire down on the mine until it collapsed, and he didn't have a whole lot of firepower then."

"Why the hell'd he do something like that?" Slag asked, looking down the tunnel mouth rapidly opening before his eyes as the raiders dug away "What'd he find down there that he wanted to keep the rest of us from seeing?"

"No idea," Razer admitted, pitching the empty Jet container into the giant crater, "But I know the spook in the suit wants it bad enough to hire raiders, knowing what the punishment in the United Commonwealth is for collaborating with any." He glanced downward towards the figure watching over the process intently, hands folded, rumpled grey suit in fine condition, not withstanding the general wear and tear of constant use.

"He gives me the chills," Slag admitted shuddering again, "It's like he belongs here." The two raiders were about to carry on with patrol when the pack leader, a former Gunner named Shrapnel, waved for the duo of scouts to join their raider brethren in the basin before the now mostly open tunnel.

"Come on," Razer grumbled, "Lets make a few caps and get the hell out of here, I'm sure the Capital Wasteland is nice this time of year."

For his part Slag couldn't agree more.

* * *

"Alright boys, here's what's what," Shrapnel growled, chewing ferociously on the stump of a cigarette, his badly tattered slouch hat doing little to hide his rapidly thinning piss-yellow hair. With a face more scars and tattoos than natural skin, Shrapnel earned his place as boss of the rag-tag band by force of will and fear, yet even he seemed nervous around the Borers. Somehow, the air leaking upward from the mine shaft was ice cold.

Gesturing towards the suited man, the Gunner continued, "Our employer wants to go into the Borers and retrieve some lost property he stashed before the Minutemen collapsed these tunnels. According to him," Shrapnel gestured a thumb towards the silent man, "The place is overrun with feral ghouls, who got all riled up when the Minutemen brought the house down, so he's going to need an escort." Looking around his motley band of killers and mercs the ex-Gunner ordered sharply, "Razer, Slag, Greggs, you're all coming in with me and moneybags here to get his stuff back, the rest of you, hold onto this entrance. I doubt we're gong to see any trouble but I want to be able to get out of this shithole when we're done." Spitting the wadded up cigarette butt out of his mouth and drawing the Chinese assault rifle from his back, the leader of the raiders waved them towards the entrance.

Slag lit the end of his flamer, wishing desperately to the entire world that he'd been assigned to guard duty as the closer he got to the entrance the more ominous it became. It became painstakingly obvious the air around the tunnels was cooler than outside, almost unnaturally so, carrying along the stench of rotting flesh and irradiated meat. A few low growls could be heard echoing about the rocky chamber though given the old concrete and steel construction of the mining facility, the lumbering ferals could have been anywhere within the complex. Taking a step inward, Slag found his mouth entirely dry, swearing he could hear something faintly aside from his own frightened breathing and pounding heart. Beside him, Razer's face was lined with sweat, barrel of his pipe rifle wavering. Though Greggs wore a gasmask that left his expression unreadable there was no doubting the fear in the raider judging by his hunched posture and nervous glances towards the clip in his combat rifle, as if afraid he'd suddenly be without ammunition.

The suited man, despite lack of obvious weaponry, seemed completely unafraid. He stepped forward, expression entirely neutral, as if bored with the entire situation. He was a slight man, short and slender and, under normal circumstances, Slag would have already broken him in half. His hair was dark and closely cropped with a simple, yet elegantly maintained, brown beard lying perfectly in place. His eyes held a menacing quality Slag couldn't hope to explain yet somehow feared utterly. Even though it was suit against armor, flamethrower against fists, Slag would have avoided the man given the choice; he seemed somehow alien.

They walked downward into the Borers, glancing about nervously at every disruption. His nervousness was taking effect in the form of a few phantom sounds seemingly without any source, whispers, whistling and footsteps. The echoes of ghoulish growling continued however there seemed to be no sign of any ferals leaving Slag more frightened than ever. Sweat ran tracks down his grimy face and his hands twitched something awful; the suited man continued to be unimpressed.

Then something horrifying happened.

There was a brilliant flash and, for one second, the area around him was clean, neat, modern. There were people he didn't recognize, standing around in pre-war clothing, operating fully functional machinery and chatting. Then the vision faded away and only skeletons filled the chamber, the bulldozer they'd been using rusted away to nothing.

He felt profoundly disturbed. He didn't have a trace of chems in his body so there was no way he'd been tripping, yet no one else had reacted. Was he going mad? The stress of his new reality of scavenging and huddling away from Brotherhood and Minutemen troops driving him over the edge?

Swallowing a lump in his throat, the raider moved forward, putting one cloth-wrapped boot on the ground in front of the other with continually more and more robotic motion trying his best to ensure he kept advancing, the jingle of caps in his mind, the relative freedom of the Capital Wasteland just beyond his reach. He'd be safe there, he'd get this job done.

He'd actually almost convinced himself that he was really fine, that he'd not actually seen any vision when he experienced another flash. A vision of men standing around, drinking bottles of Nuka Cola and Sunset Sarsaparilla, enjoying a smoke and a laugh. The solid stone walls were clean, undamaged, an area of peace in a world ravaged by wars and rumors of wars. It was a world he shouldn't be seeing, and it frightened him.

This time, when the vision faded, he was absolutely not alone. "Did anyone else see that shit?" Greggs mentioned in a hushed whisper, his head practically flying off his shoulders as he twisted his neck about, trying ever so desperately to find again the vision he'd seen.

The suited man, as always, looked unnerved. "Really? You think you've seen something? Delusion, I assure you." Slag realized, to his bizarrely intense horror, that it was the first time he'd heard any words out of the man. His voice was sickly sweet, like sugar left out in the sun long enough to rot. It was cold, emotionless, yet also somehow predatory, leaving him with a merciless aura. Somehow, despite everything he'd seen and done in his brutal life, there was nothing that scared Slag more than the man in the suit.

"Alright boys," Shrapnel ordered, rubbing a hand around his forehead beneath the slouch cap and removing a notable amount of sweat as he did, "Keep moving down, there can't be that much of a ways left to go."

But there certainly was. The cavern seemed to be going deeper and deeper into the earth, the weight of the entire Commonwealth hanging over his head. Rotten guard railings and construction equipment were interspersed among corpses, both long dead skeletons and not so long dead raiders and ghouls, the remainders of the forces left behind after the Minutemen rampaged through the territory formerly belonging to the raider forces. Still the whisperings continued, the phantom footsteps sounding louder by the moment and the hunting screeches of feral ghouls continued echoing throughout the rough cut tunnels. Yet none of the ferals showed themselves, preferring to keep hidden from the small yet heavily armed band of cutthroat raiders who'd dared to venture deep within their domain.

They walked for what seemed like hours before the signs became clear to him. Somehow, someway, perhaps it was the nature of the walls growing rougher cut, perhaps it was the distinct lack of corpses, instinct suggested to Slag they were nearing their final destination. Mercifully, there'd been no more flashes and still no sign of feral ghouls. "Just attack us already, damnit," he growled under his breath, training the barrel of the incinerator towards the nearest patch of darkness, as if all the ghouls in the Commonwealth lurked inside. None did.

Their tunnel ended in a massive open area, obviously the forward base camp. A rusted digger occupied the center while rotting wooden crates and platforms that belonged to the long-dead company piled to the side with the skeletons of their workers. The shattered remains of raider tents and burned out fires suggested what the bodies confirmed. The gang that originally made their home in the Borers had made one last stand here, yet the surrounding bodies of ferals and the condition of their wounds suggested they hadn't been killed by the Minutemen attack force, but rather the ghouls who inhabited this unhallowed place.

"God what a mess," Shrapnel muttered, aiming his Chinese assault rifle around the area, scanning for any surviving ferals. Despite the mysterious whispers and footsteps that echoed all around them, nothing appeared. Greggs flipped on the flashlight duct-tapped to the side of his gasmask, the sickly beam of light cutting through the musty darkness. Slag, for his part, couldn't help but wonder about the last moments of those raiders who'd set up here.

"Gentlemen," the stranger almost hissed, keeping his mouth still as he spoke, "We've come so very close to our goal." He pointed a pale hand towards the farthest side of the cavern where a rusted bulldozer rested blocking a portion of the wall. "Beyond that piece of equipment is the opening. Inside you will find there is a small cave. My belongings are stored within." He was so certain, so confident, despite the clinging dampness and foul air.

Shrapnel jumped on the opportunity to get out of Dunwich. "Alright boys, you heard the man! Move!" The raiders dashed towards the bulldozer, weapons held high, eyes scanning for any possible hostiles. The tension was riding Slag's neck like a weight, the lack of action genuinely frightening him. The twisting maze of concrete and steel was pressing down, weighing on his head like a Behemoth, driving him mad with worry and fear. The soot and filth that months without a bath had covered his face with was now gone, washed away by rivers of sweat.

Still, the suited man remained unbothered, walking briskly but nonchalantly, his finely crafted shoes tapping against the granite beneath his feet, echoing around the chamber.

Slag finally rounded the bulldozer's carcass, his eyes falling upon an opening in the wall, just as the suited man had said. The tunnel beyond the hole appeared natural, lit faintly by glowing mushrooms and torches somehow still burning. A few feral ghouls, now quite dead, lay scattered about the soft earth that made up the tunnel's floor. It was like nothing he'd seen throughout the entirety of the Dunwich Borers and, for some reason that frightened him more than anything.

"Please, god, don't let me go in there," he murmured, keeping the incinerator aimed towards the entrance.

Shrapnel waved his three men into formation, "Greggs, Razer you stand guard out here. I can't help feeling like this is a trap, and I want to get the hell out of here when this is done. You see anything that isn't us? Shoot it." Both men nodded their agreement, aiming rifles back out towards the shadowy cavern they'd come through.

Slag felt his heart fall through his chest as Shrapnel turned towards him, slouch cap casting a shadow enough to hide his features, "Slag, with me. We'll grab whatever our employer stored and get out. Take point with the flamer and toast anything you don't like. Got it?"  
Slag gulped. "Yeah, I got it." The suited man, for his part, remained silent, falling in behind Shrapnel. Double-checking the tip of his incinerator to ensure maximum functionality, Slag took a step down the darkened tunnel.

The flickering light of ancient torches and glowing mushrooms somehow made it eerier than simply blackness would be, casting sinister shadows over every point of open space. The tunnel felt damp, and quiet, and he could almost hear the sound of dripping water pasted the now much louder whispers and footsteps not his own. Still, despite everything, he was moving forward.

Then it happened again.

A brilliant flash of light and he saw another vision. While the previous ones were eerie due to a sense of normalcy that shouldn't have been possible, the vision he saw before him was horrific on its own accord. Men and women knelt around a sickly green pool, heads bowed, dressed in some dark robes. Slightly apart from the kneelers was a man dressed in far more elaborate robes, standing behind a pulpit with a twisted looking dagger in one hand and an evil-looking book in the other. Though the vision was silent it was clear that the standing man was speaking, rather loudly.

Then it ended.

"What the hell is this place?" He asked, loud enough that everyone could hear him.

"Just a little tucked-away corner," the suited man said cryptically, "Forgotten by most everyone who lives. But not by me." He clearly knew more about the place than he'd said, he clearly knew far more about everything. Slag felt smothered, but he didn't care about understanding, secretes or knowledge at that particular point, all he wanted to do was get out.

Just like the vision had shown him, the tunnel ended in a small round room, a few dead feral ghouls remained where they'd been felled but there was no sign of a pulpit or black-robbed congregants. The whisperings were overpoweringly loud here and the raider knew it couldn't have been his imagination, which begged the question, what were they? However, most of his attention was focused towards the pool of water in the center of the chamber. It almost glowed a sickly green, seeming to ripple despite the lack of current. The water was murky to the point it proved impossible to guess exactly how deep the pool ran.

The suited man was, once again, unbothered by the oddly frightening pool of glowing water. "Have you never seen an underground pond?" He asked Slag in that mysterious sickly-sweet half purr the raider already associated with his mysterious employer. At the sound of that voice Slag shuddered, his finger twitching around the flamer's trigger.

Shrapnel seemed just as worried, his piss-yellow hair plastered against his forehead with sweat. Evidently he'd seen something too in the small cavern and wasn't eager to go deeper. Keeping the Chinese assault rifle pointed forward he took a few steps towards the pond, against his better instincts glancing down. Slag had gotten a decent glance at the pool, the murky green water preventing any real investigation. Shrapnel shuddered and stepped away from the pool, glancing about in an attempt to locate the source of the persistent whispers that wouldn't leave.

"We'll be done soon, gentlemen, do not worry." Slag turned towards the suited man again and noticed his actions with surprise. The mysterious man had removed his suit jacket, folding it properly and resting it on the floor. He took off his belt and shoes and placed them besides the coat. He was halfway done unbuttoning his shirt before he stated, "My property is placed at the bottom of that small pool, I shall retrieve it and we'll be on our way." With the shirt likewise folded, the man took a small rebreather from his pant's pocket, fastening it across his face. When the pants were also folded it revealed he'd been wearing a pair of old swim trunks underneath, he'd indeed been ready to take a dip.

He gestured for the two raiders to watch the entrance and then dived into the pool. The splash of liquid-green sent a shiver along Slag's spine and he shuddered for reasons he couldn't explain. "Boss," he muttered to Shrapnel. When the ex-gunner looked to his associate the Forged murmured, "This smells shitty, let's get the hell outta here before he comes up."

"The hell?" Shrapnel growled, "I don't want to have gone into this place for nothing."

"I want to live to delve again!" Slag hissed, "We don't need the caps! Let's get the hell outta here, run to DC or the Midwest. I don't care, just away from here." He pointed towards the luminescent pool, "How'd this guy know about this palace? Who stores stuff in a glowing puddle? This guy's scary, you know it, I know it. Let's bounce!"

"Shut up and keep watch," Shrapnel ordered, "We'll be out of this concrete box in a moment and we'll get paid. It'll be fine, trust me."

Slag had no alternative, there was no way out, no way of escape, so he grit his teeth and waited. He didn't have to wait long.

A splashing sound behind him, extra loud due to the cavern's confines, erupted. Slag glanced over his shoulder and saw the damp yet still unafraid form of the suited man clamber out of the pool, something held in his hand. "We have what we came for," he said and for a moment Slag thought their employer was speaking to him. Yet all that came crashing down as the suited man continued speaking, ignoring him utterly. "Dispose of them," he announced to the air around them, "No one can know what we came to retrieve."

"What the fu…" Shrapnel roared, aiming his rifle towards the scrawny form that had clambered out of the pond. Yet the former gunner never managed to finish his curse as someone else appeared. Materializing, seemingly out of their air, was a tall, dark-skinned man wearing sunglasses and a long, black coat. In his hand was a 10 millimeter pistol, the barrel covered with a long silencer. His hands were completely, inhumanely steady and he fired without hesitation. A trio of rounds, near silent, slammed into Shrapnel's chest and he fell backward into the pool with a tremendous splash, the murky water sucking away his corpse and leaving the floating, battered slouch cap the only testament to what had just occurred.

Slag finally remembered his training, moving the incinerator towards this new threat but before he could roast the dark man alive something bit into his back, something jagged and icy cold. His hands froze up and body went numb as he fell to his knees weapon falling away. As his eyes closed he faintly heard the suited man say coldly, "No witnesses."

* * *

He opened his eyes and gazed into horror. It was a writhing, seething mass of tendrils, eyes and mouths without form or substance, blood red and burnt yellow, screaming silently at him from mere inches away. Slag screamed back at it until his voice was hoarse, thrashing against the bonds that held his arms against the frigid chill of the slat wall.

It took a few moments before it occurred to him that the red and yellow abomination hadn't moved, and wasn't making any noise. It was nothing more than a painting, a twisted creation of some deranged mind and yet so lifelike that it fooled the veteran raider. He was in a room, a bedroom, with the painting hung inches from his face on the opposing wall. Everything was unnecessarily tidy, yet an aura of menace hung low on every tea cup and throw pillow.

A cold sweat broke across Slag's face as he slowly began to realize where he was. He'd heard the ghost stories, the whispered legends, the silent exchanges… People died all the time in the Commonwealth…

His back was burning, enflamed with agony yet still strangely numb in places. He continued to thrash, pushing his arms against the bonds, but it was to no avail, he was far too weak and the chains held strong.

"Good, you're awake. The dagger's poison took long enough to wear off." A pause, Do you like that painting?" The sickly sweet voice announced, entering the room from a position he couldn't see. "It's one of my masterpieces, from the golden days of my muse. It took two cans of blood to get the color right…" Just as Slag suspected, the suited man walked into his field of vision, something jagged and crooked hanging from his belt and a large dull orange gas can in his hands. Judging from the smell it was full of something.

"You…you…You're Pickman!" The words stumbled out of his mouth like a horrified stream.

"I know." He smiled, a terrifying expression in its own right, somehow colder than the walls, than the tunnels beneath Dunwich. "As delightful as it was parading before you insects unknown, keeping myself from gutting the lot of you was difficult."

"The bogyman was right there…and I didn't recognize you?" Slag could hardly believe it, shaking his head defeated, "You're a monster…"

"Not as much as you, dear raider," he announced mater-of-fact, unstopping the gas can. "Slaughtering your ilk has been my glory, my passion, the fuel of my artistic fire." He pressed his fingers against his mouth, savoring his work with an unholy glee. Upending the can and pouring, what Slag guessed was a dark oil, across the floor Pickman continued speaking, "My work served a higher purpose than mere art, you know, even Pickman has a master, master of my own craft that I may be." He paused, moving closer to Slag, continuing to spread the contents of his can about. It was certainly lamp oil judging from the smell and Slag began to sweat nervously.

"What's that purpose?"

"An artist!" Pickman exclaimed, "A critic perhaps?" He emptied the container around Slag's feet before tossing the now-empty can onto the bed. "I admire your curiosity, raider. Even in the face of your worst nightmare you probe, you question. I like that, stern stuff." He reached into his pocket, retrieving a packet of cigarettes, "Do you smoke?" It was so casual, so out of the blue, that Slag was taken aback.

"No."

"Good." The killer turned the packet around in his hands, examining it from every angle, "Horrid stuff, burns out the lungs." Pickman looked Slag in the eye and spoke the most horrific words the Forged had ever heard, "You're made of sterner stuff than your fellows. I wish I had time to take you under my knife…really get to meet the true you…Like I did so many of your vile ilk." Still holding the packet of cigarettes in one hand, Pickman retrieved a small container of lighter fluid, upending it onto the package, soaking it. Dropping that empty metal shell, the killer replaced it with a simple lighter.

"What the hell are you doing?" Slag half asked half shrieked, trying to claw his way into the wall, away from Pickman, anywhere but near the psychotic monster standing before him.

"As much as I…enjoy…" Pickman paused, as if ashamed of his word choice, "No. Let's be honest in the face of mortality, As much as I delight in dismembering your fellow raiders and hanging their limbs about my gallery I will be forced to work with a great deal of them in the future. I need raiders for my plan to work; therefore, I can not be killing them, as is my preference. Therefore," he held up his free hand, "My last masterpiece must be memorable." He gestured towards the chained-up Slag with an artist's flourish, "I call it, From the Ashes!"

With robotic precision he flicked the lighter on, setting the carton of cigarettes alight. Letting both lighter and packet fall to the floor, Pickman turned and left.

The room burst into flames around him, the heat rising beyond anything he'd ever felt in the massive steel mill. As the fire licked at his skin and Slag boiled alive in the burning room he shrieked and screamed for someone, anyone, to come save him.

Yet no one heard him and no one came.

* * *

Pickman watched the gallery burn to the ground, flames licking the night sky gloriously. X6-88, for his part, seemed unmoved, the Courser making no indication that he particularly cared one way or another, the flames reflecting brilliantly in the dark lenses of his glasses.

"Was it truly necessary to burn the gallery down?" The Courser asked with the same robotic neutrality that many synths, even Gen 3's couldn't quite shake. "It must have held sentiment for you."

"Much good was done within those walls, true," Pickman said with something approaching sorrow, watching the roof of the place cave in on itself, "Yet the destruction of any trace of me is absolutely necessary. The General can not know of my involvement, not until it is far too late."

"I understand tactical sacrifice," X6 stated bluntly, saying no more on the matter.

"We will get our revenge on the man responsible our sufferings, X6, I assure you," Pickman told the Courser reassuringly, turning to face his inhuman comrade. "Together, we will bring what he has built crashing down upon his head. I believe that is your goal."

"Not only mine," the synth admitted, "There are others who want the destroyer ruined and suffering."

"And they shall have it." Pickman patted the sacred dagger at his waist, retrieved from the sunken shrine beneath Dunwich Borers. Phase one was already flawless, the weapon exactly where Obadiah stated it would be. "Let's go out and gather our respective followers. If our plans are to succeed our timing must be precise."

"It will be." X6-88 was utterly filled with confidence, "The talks will be disrupted, the players eliminated and our vengeance completed."

"Then let's be off my friend," the killer stated with a smile, "We have work to do if we are to initiate the second step…"

* * *

 _Alexander Blackwood's journal_

" _War, war never changes." I can still remember grandpa telling me that, the stink of tobacco and gunpowder on his old fatigues as he showed me the pictures, those images of his grandfather fighting The Great War, against the Nazi's, the war to end all wars._

 _Heh, we screwed that up royally._

 _Some days all I can see when I look out the window is that old world, that place I fought so hard to protect and other days I see it as it is now, the new world, the place I'm building up for Shaun, and those after him._

 _I hear the thunder of Chinese guns in my ear, yet see the forms of Super Mutants. I smell Nora's perfume but see Cait. I'm a man in two worlds, a man who's grasping the past with both hands even as he struggles to let it go._

 _I'm speaking with Maxson tomorrow, going over the groundwork and last minute details for this peace talk. Maybe if I can get the Capital Wasteland communities to align with the United Commonwealth we can really start rebuilding that country I sometimes see in the mornings._

 _I can't wait to tell my grandkids about how mankind came back from nuclear war, it's going to blow their minds._

 _I'll write again tomorrow._

* * *

 **AN: And we're off to the races! _  
_**


	2. Airsick

_He screamed and screamed when I put him under my knife. It was majestic to my ears. Yet it was what he said that caught my interest…_

* * *

Cait stood on the ramparts of the Castle's mighty walls staring out over the distance ruins of Boston. It was quiet, far quieter than it had ever been in her recollection. For once, no sound of gunfire, no explosive shells could be heard. Nothing but the gentle breeze rustling past her broke the stillness of the morning, streaming crimson hair out behind her like the flapping of the flags along the ramparts. The crossed musket and lightning against blue stood out proudly, accompanied by copies of the Gadston flag, the coiled snake daring any foe remaining in the United Commonwealth to try treading on the Minutemen.

What her man had done was remarkable, no doubt about that. When Cait had first laid eyes on her future boyfriend he'd been a dirty looking scavenger with laser musket, a grey toque pulled low, long trench coat and dull shirt covering a frame that, although muscled, was unimpressive in most respects. Behind a pair of battered old glasses were those shining blue eyes she'd never forget.

He'd won her freedom that day, taking her contract from Tommy who'd long run the Combat Zone on her scarred back. Alexander Blackwood had just wanted to find his son, that was all and he figured, tough lass that she was, Cait would be able to help.

Help him she did…And so much more.

The Irishwoman kicked a clod of dirt over the side of the wall noncommittally. As safe and secure as the Castle was she'd far rather be back in Sanctuary Hills, it was home the first place she'd ever felt truly secure and wanted. She loved the old blue house she shared with her mate and Shaun, the synth he'd brought back as his own son. That was its own problem and she preferred not to dwell on it.

"I need a damn drink," She grumbled, continuing to stare off towards the massive airship hovering above Brotherhood territory. The Prydwen was rippling with guns, bearing hundreds of Power Armor clad souls and she was honestly glad the Minutemen never tussled with the Brotherhood of Steel, no matter how close they'd come.

She hadn't really been paying attention when her man and Maxson crafted the Accords the rendered the United Commonwealth a new and improved state. There was a BOS embassy in Diamond City now, and both the Minutemen and Brotherhood would rally together against any common enemy but there was some strict territorial boundaries. Beneath the Prydwen, Boston Airport was Brotherhood territory, where the Codex was law and even Alexander needed permission to travel.

He was up on the airship now, preparing some final details with the Brotherhood's Elder and Cait wished she was with him in case of trouble. But he was out of her hands and she couldn't stop worrying about him.

"Hey Cait," a voice interrupted, feminine and too perky for her tastes. "Cait, you got a second?" Clambering up the rickety wooden stairs leading to the ramparts, huffing and puffing, was the reported Piper Wright. "Hoo, I need to get in better shape," she mumbled, bent over for a moment and properly winded from the rapid ascent.

"What do you want, Piper?" Cait asked with thinly veiled hostility, "Can't you see I want to be alone?"

"The news waits for no one, Cait," Piper quipped, reaching into the front pocket of her red leather trench coat and withdrawing her trusty notepad. Fetching the stubby pencil tucked behind her ear, Piper asked bluntly, "Cait, you're romantically involved with the general…"

"Aye, there a problem?" Cait snapped, not caring particularly much for the question or its asker.

"So, did he tell you what he's planning on asking Maxson? What the future holds for our dear United Commonwealth?" The pencil was pressed against the pad, Piper's head cocked to the side with eyes narrowing.

"I'm not even a bloody Minuteman! I don't know what they're planning, and if I did I wouldn't tell you." Cait stated adamantly, "You think I'm just going to betray my man to the press? No thanks."

"This is big news, Cait," Piper stressed, "The people really want to know what's happening. An alliance between the Capital Wasteland cities and the United Commonwealth is a big step back towards true civilization and any scrap of knowledge we can gleam about that future is worth knowing."

"I'm not saying a word so bugger off Piper. Ask Danse if you're so curious." The redhead turned her back on the reporter gazing towards the Prydwen with the intensity born of a lifetime of pure focus. Piper grumbled something under her breath about pig-headed, overly stubborn girlfriends but pattered off towards some other unassuming victim. Tabloid journalism was alive and well.

"Careful, lover," Cait mumbled, looking towards the imposing shape of the airship, "Don't bite off more than you can chew…"

* * *

"I still think we should have brought Colonel Danse along for these initial discussions," Preston Garvey stated with conviction, hat held tightly in his gloved hands, "He's just as important to the Minutemen as I am, more so even."

The Vertibird Maxson had sent down for the party was crowded by the prescience of so many Minutemen higher-ups; fortunately it wasn't a long flight. Dogmeat lay over Alexander's feet, tongue casually hanging low as he scratched behind his ears with the occasional yawn.

 _At least someone is happy with all this._

"It's not that he's less important Garvey, it's just that old Alex here doesn't want to piss off Maxson more than he has too," Hancock admitted with a gravelly laugh, the ghoul mayor of Goodneighbor seeming far more relaxed than any ghoul should have been given the territory he was entering. "A ghoul is bad enough but your former golden-boy turned synth turned top Minuteman? That's gonna sting something awful." He reached into one of the pockets on his elaborate coat, withdrawing a small container of Jet for a quick hit.

"Hancock's right," Blackwood finally spoke, keeping his voice mellow. "As mush as I always appreciate Danse's council, and would very much like him to be present, I also want to respect Maxson's position. Danse will be at the Capital Wasteland meeting and that is what matters most." Resting his hand against the handle of the Shem Drowe sword, the Vault dweller spoke again, "This is nothing more than a few last minute arrangements. We need to be on the same page with the Brotherhood, since they're hosting the peace talks."

"So there will be BOS members from both the United Commonwealth and DC?" Garvey enquired, doing his best to look calm as the Vertibird docked into the much larger vessel with a mechanical thud.

"Yup," Alexander stated, looking across at the other members of his company. Ronnie Shaw hadn't said a word, clutching her laser musket and scowling. The old woman didn't care much for flying, not that Alexander blamed her. He didn't enjoy it much more than she did. Aside from her, Garvey and Hancock, there was Sergeant Duke Colder, a member of the Minutemen who'd risen through the ranks on skill and determination. Though not native to the Commonwealth, his actions during the reclamation of Quincy more than earned him a place on Alexander's "cabinet."

Duke was tall, broad shouldered and stoic, with a stern chin and square head, made remarkably flatter due to an unfortunate buzz cut. A jagged scar rain diagonally along his face from right temple to just left of his mouth, narrowly avoiding eye and nostrils, though rending the bridge asunder. The Minutemen uniform seemed barely able to contain his rippling muscles, which bulged against the fabric, pressing outward without fear. His body was scarred and what had apparently once been a tattoo along his right bicep had been long ago burned away, leaving nothing but scar tissue.

The sergeant said nothing, but looked up towards the Prydwen with mild interest, glancing back down towards his plasma rifle for one final check. Everything seemed in working order and when the Brotherhood pilot turned back from the cockpit and said, "You are free to disembark. Welcome aboard, sir," Duke was the first man onto the blimp, ready to shield the general with his body if need be.

Dogmeat plopped himself down afterward, happily sniffing about the metal walkway for fresh smells and scents. Hancock moved far more lankily, lazily, leaving his sawed-off shotgun and switchblade fully visible on his belt but without emphasis, he was armed but held no intention of starting a fight. Preston, ever the good XO, waited for the general to double-check sword and revolver, moving onto the Prydwen after Alexander and not before.

Ronnie was still exiting the vertibird when the Brotherhood welcoming party made itself known. "Paladin Blackwood," a friendly, female voice, strong yet warm, announced, followed closely by the appearance of its owner. There was only one who continued to call him Paladin, more out of respect than any real power left to the title.

The heavy stomping of metal against metal was common enough for a force of Power Armored super soldiers but something about the awkward gait of the footsteps gave away the woman who they could belong to.

Turning to face her Alexander saluted respectfully, "Proctor Ingram. You look well." She certainly did, severed legs not withstanding. Her modified Power Armor frame looked neatly polished and her visible uniform was pressed and crisp.

Though the two Paladins on either side of the Proctor made no sign they even acknowledge Blackwood's arrival, Ingram returned the salute with a smile, "You always were a flatterer." She chuckled, making a deliberate, exaggerated flicking of her hair like she was a love-struck teen.

"I have a thing for redheads," the general admitted with a sly smile, resting both hands comfortably on the hilt of his sword, "Will you be taking part in the negations?" He still knew precious little about the Brotherhood's representatives.

"Someone needs to ensure the technical aspect is looked at," Ingram admitted, shrugging without commitment, "Considering the main thing our DC branch has is this massive water purifier. Transportation, logistics and mathematics are my particular strength." She paused, gesturing for the general and his accompanying party to follow her towards the bridge, where Maxson would be waiting, "Hopefully Rothchild can handle most of it though; I'm more a grease monkey girl than a number cruncher."

"Rothchild?" Duke asked in his remarkably neutral voice, seemingly free of any emotion positive or negative, "Who is that?"

"Reginald Rothchild was the head scribe back in DC," Ingram said with a subtle shift in tone that suggested something approaching reverence, "He stayed behind after Elder Lyons died to help keep the Citadel under control while Maxson took most of us into the Commonwealth. He was actually the original driving force behind Liberty Prime's reconstruction and his work on that robot was invaluable. It'll be an absolute honor to see him again." She glanced over the railing towards the airport, almost invisible from this height.

Yet even with the distance, the light glistening off the top of Prime's metallic head could be clear seen. The completion of that robot had fundamentally altered the balance of power Alexander had so confidently felt after the Minutemen took down the Institute. While his current situation with the Brotherhood was complicated to say the least, he wasn't sure his old allegiance would prevent Maxson from forcing the outcome the Elder wanted. Though his artillery was mighty and the size of the Minutemen forces far greater than the Brotherhood there was no guarantee of victory.

Alexander wanted everything smooth, for the sake of his people, as Maxson certainly did, considering the Brotherhood's initiating the negotiations. They were the only group left, so far as Alexander was aware with outposts in multiple post war countries, though admittedly he wasn't sure of the relationship between those separate groups. When asking Maxson about a group he referred to as the mid-western Brotherhood, the Elder made some statement suggesting they were "corrupted and against our principles." Alexander didn't bring it up again.

The bridge was softly lit, as Alexander typically had seen it back during his Brotherhood of Steel days, though the bottle of vodka Maxson kept handy was opened, giving the room a vaguely boozy smell. The flag stand stood vigil in the corner, proudly displaying the BOS colors for all to see while the freshly polished windows gleamed in the light. A long table had been set up, groaning beneath the weight of papers, holotapes and holoprojectors, though no chairs had been provided.

Leaning over the table was a few men Alexander recognized instantly, Lancer Captain Kells' dark face was a mask of serious concentration as he whispered to the elder in hushed tone, his hat tilted slightly backward. Proctor Quinlan pushed his glasses back up his nose, shuffling the papers about before him in a manner that would only make sense to a veteran scribe. Proctor Teagan held the most cavalier attitude, leaning on the table without giving much through to anyone beyond twirling the hairs on his steel-grey beard.

And beyond it all was Arthur Maxson, a man that Alexander considered friend, of a sort, yet he couldn't fully trust. Maxson stood tall, proud, speaking with Kells in the same hushed tone yet without any fear. It was, Alexander realized rather suddenly, the first time he'd spoken with Maxson in person since Danse's identity as a synth was revealed and he's refused the Elder's direct order. They'd had a few radio communications since, but never face to face.

 _Well, here's hoping Maxson doesn't hold a grudge._

"And Star-Paladin Cross assured you they would be here on time?" Maxson stated boldly, though his voice carried enough that Alexader could hear it.

"Rothchild wants to dig up some old relic they think they've discovered, then they'll be on their way. We've sent enough Vertibirds to make the trip quick and comfortable."

"Good, I don't want any delay. The sooner we get these negations locked down the sooner we can peruse our goals. Far too many escaped the destruction of the Institute and I want them found." Maxson turned to face the oncoming party, with Ingram giving the appropriate salute, "The Minutemen are here, Elder." With another smile to Alexander she stomped towards her place on the table.

Waving Kells aside, Arthur Maxson shifted to face the delegation, "General." He said with a tone of neutrality, "You look well."

 _Well he doesn't seem hostile. Unless calling me general is implying my name's not worth remembering. Or he could be being polite…I hate this blasted uncertainty._

"Elder Maxson," Alexander bowed his head politely, recognizing the other man's position of authority, "I'm glad to see you." Which was true at least.

Maxson addressed the others in turn, "Garvey, Shaw, Colder…" Looking at Hancock with barely disguised disdain Maxson practically sneered, "John."

Hancock held his hands over his heart in mock surprise, "He remembers my name? I'm flattered." The ghoul sneered right back, yellow eyes narrowing unimpressed on the elder.

"Hancock," Alexander stated with a commanding and yet neutral tone, "Let's all relax." The ghoul said nothing but leaned back on his feet, dipping hands into the pockets of his coat. Dogmeat rolled over on his back, confident, it seemed, that his master wouldn't need him for the duration of the meetings.

"Let's call this meeting to order," Kells announced, hands clasped firmly behind his back, "First order of business, the review. What is the intention of our negotiations?"

Preston cleared his throat and began speaking methodically, "To meet with the representatives from the Capital Wasteland and establish an official military alliance and trade relations with them. The Brotherhood of Steel will facilitate this meeting."

Ronnie Shaw butted in, probably just to prove she'd been paying attention to the briefings, "The Capital Wasteland lacks the unity of the United Commonwealth and therefore we're actually meeting the heads of some city-states, if that term can be applied here. Additionally the DC wasteland lacks the stability we've found in the Commonwealth, with many of our surviving raider gangs fleeing up there. It's in all our best interest to end that plague."

"DC has an enormous supply of fresh water, the Brotherhood saw to that," Teagan added, still not looking up from the supply manifest on his table, "Though General Alexander has done a tremendous job with getting water purified throughout the United Commonwealth, the Capital Wasteland's abundant supply will come in handy. Additionally, they will provide some new land for settling and growing crops, seeing as how our borders are somewhat nebulous at this point."

"Getting good borders established is one of our top priorities," Alexander admitted, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, "Additionally we intend to set up embassies and the other typical diplomatic stuff."

"I want to hunt down the Institute remnants," Arthur stated bluntly, without flair, "I want to be able to hunt them to the end of God's earth. If this alliance makes it easier for me to move Brotherhood assets around then I'll sign any document."

"So, we're in agreement for once?" Hancock asked with something resembling genuine surprise, "It's going to be one of those days…"

"Alright, we all know what our game plan is here," Ingram announced with frustration typical of the engineer when everything seemed obvious to her and yet everyone else was beating around the bush, "Let's get our organizations finalized. Has Rothchild announced who is going to be representing the DC Wasteland?"

 _There's a question._

This time it was Proctor Quinlan who spoke, "Head Scribe Rothchild and I have been in near constant communication about this issue. He, Star-Paladin Cross and Scribe Olin will be accompanied by several Brotherhood troops and will lead the DC representatives."

"Any word on who those representatives may be?" Alexander was curious; he'd heard plenty out of the Capital Wasteland and tried his best to learn about the players but gathering accurate information was difficult without direct interaction, and the Minutemen couldn't afford to spare any scouts for such an operation.

"We know that a party from Megaton, which we assume includes a mayor Simms will be in attendance," Quinlan ticked off the rest on his hands, "Likewise a delegation from Rivet City, a group from Underworld and several other figures will be attending." He paused, for dramatic effect if nothing else before adding, "And the Lone Wanderer himself."

Now that was a name Alexander recognized. "Really? There's someone I want to meet." He leaned back slightly, tilting his head in thought, "I suppose then that security for this peace-treaty won't be much of a problem."

"No." Kells stated with all confidence, "But it will be provided by our own Paladins and Minutemen troops in a location of the General's choosing."

"Colonel Garvey," Alexander turned to face his right-hand man, "What are our candidates?"

"New Sanctuary is heavily fortified, with plenty of supplies and firepower. With its position near Sanctuary Hills, our capital, getting more troops there in an emergency is easy enough." Garvey flipped the notepad he'd hastily scribbled his answers down on to the next yellow page, "Outpost Zimonja was also suggested due to its proximity with what we consider the DC border. It's well armed and fortified but away from all civilization. Abernathy farm is another top contender."

"Let's make it New Sanctuary," Maxson stated bluntly, "I like the symbolism and the location. We can easily fortify those walls if need be and provide space for our guests to spend a few nights, assuming you'll be willing to put them up?" The elder looked deep into Alexander's eyes, as if gauging what the man would do next.

"The Minutemen are happy to provide food and lodging to those who need it," he matched Arthur's gaze without hesitation as if willing Maxson to see that the generosity of the Minutemen was a strength.

"Who's in our diplomatic party?" Hancock butted in, ignoring the potential awkwardness of the situation. "We've got you bigwigs obviously," he gestured to the Brotherhood members in attendance, "Plus Preston, Danse and Xander over there." Maxson made the slightest, nearly invisible twitch at the mention of Danse's name but said nothing.

"I've spoken with several community leaders I think should be represented," Alexander answered, refusing to acknowledge Hancock's use of the nickname he pointedly disliked, "Blake Abernathy and Abraham Filch came to mind right away, as did Kessler and Wiseman."

Teagan muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "How many damn ghouls are going to be at this thing?" But didn't otherwise give any issue. Maxson's face remained a blank slate, features unreadable.

"Vault 81 is sending a group as well, led by Overseer McNamara herself, Goodneighbour has Mayor Hancock," the ghoul flashed his most charming, yellow smile, doffing his hat in a fancy bow.

"What about Diamond City?" Ingram noted, eyebrows forced together in a puzzled expression, "They have no mayor with both McDonough and Geneva killed in that unfortunate shootout…" Hancock looked visibly shaken at the unwelcome reminder of that encounter but kept his grief to himself. The mood whiplash for the normally unflappable ghoul was staggering.

"The people of the city have elected a few representatives in the absence of any real authority." Alexander paused, doing his best to gauge Maxson's reaction before speaking, "They've chosen Nick Valentine to head up the committee."

Obviously the Commonwealth's most famous synth being so intimately involved with a talk that'd dictate the future of America didn't sit well with the Brotherhood.

"Valentine? That two-bit gumshoe?" Teagan asked with barely repressed disdain, "What's he know about anything."

"He's…" Kells began, before stopping as if the answer were obvious. The words, "No synth should have such authority," weren't said aloud exactly but they were certainly felt.

"Nick has my full support." Alexander spoke very carefully, ensuring everyone knew exactly what he meant by that statement.

"Clear the room," Maxson ordered abruptly, sharply, his tone a razor's edge, "I want to discuss this matter in private with the general."

Alexander had expected something to that effect; even so he wasn't fully prepared for it. Even as Garvey passed by with a whispered, "You'll do fine general," he was sweating. What did he know of negotiations?

Still someone had to smooth things over with Maxson, might as well be the general.

* * *

The building wasn't exactly haunted. Paladin Kodiak didn't believe in such things as phantoms, spirits and shades but the old DC ruin left him uneasy.

Rothchild had sent what remained of Lyon's Pride to search the ruins for Enclave technology before the group set out for the Commonwealth. Apparently Paladin McGraw, back during the days of Brotherhood Outcasts before Elder Maxson made them one again, had run afoul of a few Enclave Hellfire troopers in the building and wanted to bring that matter to the Head Scribe's attention. Rothchild deemed it necessary to send the very best, as they could cut through the remaining Super Mutants and raiders, retrieve any data and be back before the Vertibirds left for the Commonwealth.

They were only three now, their numbers whittled down by Enclave remnants, raiders, Mutants and bad luck. Elder Maxson's wishes for the Pride seemed, at best, contradictory. At one point he'd suggest they replace the fallen members of the Pride and keep Sarah's squad alive, but replacements never came, not that Kodiak would have accepted them. Other times it was as if Maxson kept sending the Pride into the toughest fights, the most dangerous missions, in an attempt to have them killed off to the last, to end Sarah Lyon's final living memory.

Kodiak wondered about the dark rumors, wondered about Maxson and Sarah. Was the elder as innocent as he claimed? Sarah's body had never been found, even if the rest of the accompanying squad's had been and the circumstances surrounding her death had been suspicious, a quick coronation of Maxson following Sarah officially being ruled dead. Kodiak held no real trust for the elder, but the Codex was clear. He'd follow Maxson's orders without hesitation, but still he wondered…

Each of his fallen comrades became a gouge on his armor, Sarah, Vargas, Glade and Dusk, all gone. It was one thing after another, Glade fell during the final push on the Enclave holdout, Vargas to a band of Super Mutants that had grown unbelievably large and Dusk to some punk raider who got lucky with a grenade.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Kodiak activated his helmet lamp, the brilliant white beam cutting a clear path through the musty old ruin. Gallows kept his shotgun held tightly in his hands, scanning the building for whatever technology Rothchild believed was worth the trip. Colvin had moved into another room on the same floor, easily within shouting distance if something went horribly wrong. Kodiak hated to split the trio up as he had, but they needed to cover the location quickly. There was still plenty that needed to be looked at even as if became more and more clear that Rothchild's tip was a bust.

The old building seemed utterly free of any sign of the Enclave. There wasn't a single power cell or bootprint. Nothing greeted them but a thick layer of dust and cobwebs large enough to suggest a nest of rad-spiders lurking about. At the thought of the massive arachnids, Kodiak shuddered.

"Too many eyes on them," he murmured to himself, pointing his laser rifle towards the largest patch of webs just in case. His Power Armor thundered with each step, eyes narrowed behind his helmet as he glanced about.

 _I hate dead ends._

"Kodiak," Gallows rumbled from the other side of the large dinning room, flipping over a rotting table in frustration, "We're wasting our time. The Head Scribe was wrong."

It was hard not to agree with the stoic Knight-Captain. Kodiak hated running into DC for no reason and Rothchild's information seemed more and more incorrect at each passing moment.

Kodiak shined his helmet light towards the ceiling, feeling foolish for the action but desperately needing to check everywhere for some clue to the location's importance. Regardless of personal opinions Kodiak was nothing but dedicated.

"You heard me?" Gallows grumbled out again, his usual phlegmatic tone suggesting nothing of the stone-faced Knight-Captain's emotional state.

"I heard you, Gallows," Kodiak responded, more tired and frustrated than upset. "Let me just get Colvin and we'll bug out." Turning up the speaker on his helmet Kodiak bellowed, "Colvin! There's nothing here! Let's fall back so we can get rolling!"

To Kodiak's great surprise Colvin answered in a slightly panicked tone, "Kodiak! Gallows! Brothers get here now! I've found something!"  
"Sounds like trouble," Gallows mumbled already sprinting towards the sound of their brother. Kodiak had his laser rifle in hand in moments, finger on the trigger and ready to put a bolt of energy through whatever abomination Colvin had dug up.

Kodiak was prepared for anything, Super Mutant suicider, killer robots, Deathclaws or ghouls. However, in all his fantasies about what may have been behind the shattered doorway Colvin had entered, he never imagined what he found.

It was a plain enough room but the back wall proved far more intriguing than the plain nature revealed. There appeared to be a hidden doorway, now opened by Colvin, with a dark, twisting staircase leading down into utter darkness.

Without hesitation Kodiak plunged head-first into the blackness after Gallow's massive form, who hadn't paused either upon entering the chamber. At the bottom of those dark stairs, that somehow supported the weight of his Power Armor, he found a second chamber, menacing in its intent.

It was stone, bare and cold save for a few key objects. The room was lit from the soft green glow of a terminal and a blue light rapidly fading from a large shattered tube in the center of the floor. Aside from the terminal and tube, large enough to hold a human being, there was nothing else in the room. The tube had been evidently made of glass, containing some kind of dark fluid that was spreading rapidly across the floor.

Colvin was kneeling before its shattered remains, the bulk of his armor hiding something from view. "I didn't mean it," he mumbled out, seeming in shock, "As Almighty God is my witness I didn't intend it!"

Kodiak shoved passed his fellow Lyon he gasped with a combination of shock and horror; what he saw wasn't possible, a mockery of everything he held dear.

Evidently the tube had contained a person, a woman in fact. She lay on the floor, naked and still, long blonde hair spread amongst the fluid. She was tall, fair of skin, with a body covered in scars. The stillness of death hung over her still form, unbreathing.

It was undoubtedly Sarah Lyons.

"I just saw something glowing that looked like Sarah! I was surprised!" Colvin was babbling, gazing down at the impossible woman before him. "My finger slipped and I shot the tube. It shattered… she came tumbling out onto the floor…"

"Easy brother," Kodiak whispered, unable to believe what he was seeing for himself, grasping Colvin's shoulder, "It's alright."

"It can't be." Gallows whispered, sounding, for the first time Kodiak had ever heard, shaken, even afraid. "It's not possible…"

Then Sarah's eyes opened and she gasped.

* * *

 _Alexander Blackwood's Journal_

 _I respect Arthur Maxson, I really do. Perhaps I see some of myself in this younger man. He's thrown into a position of leadership he really isn't prepared for, like myself, with an impossible task ahead of him._

 _I hope our alliance can stand, Lord knows there are holes in our ideology, the entire reason I couldn't fulfill all his commands._

 _Danse wasn't the only bit._

 _The Railroad means well, though they are at times children playing with firecrackers and big ideas. The thought of killing the lot of them was too much, too unnecessary._

 _If Maxson learned they were alive…_

 _Can't think about it. I've got a bad enough poker face as it is, something Cait makes abundantly clear when she takes my caps. Hancock swears up and down I let her win but the truth is I'm a bad liar, never had the stomach for it._

 _Never had a stomach for violence either but that never stopped me from doing what needed to be done._

 _Guess we'll see what I'm capable of if need be._

* * *

 **AN: Thanks for your support so far. :)  
**


	3. Technical Difficulties

_I can't remember the first time I took a life. Has it really been that long? I was young…I do remember that much…_

* * *

"Blasted thing!" Zimmer growled, slamming the teleporter beacon against his hand with a defiant smack of metal on flash as if he could will the object to work. The air was frightfully cool by this point in the year, a light dusting of frost settling over the fallen leaves and trees broken up by occasional rubble. His breath hung in clouds before his face, leaving his glasses foggy and in need of constant wiping to continue moving forward.

It had been a long arduous march from the Wasteland back to the Commonwealth, dodging raiders and Super Mutants, avoiding the battles between the Enclave and the Brotherhood, both pretenders when the Institute was the only true future for the United States, and eating sub-par food, all cans. Zimmer hated it, missing the home-grown food, the comfortable beds and the security of underground living. He hadn't seen anything colored in that crisp, perfect white in years…

The dark sky overhead glared down angrily, as if daring him to continue living without a ceiling. The cool wind and halfway snow-rain pattered against his papery skin, sending a shiver through his old bones. His clothes were dirty and worn, his feet aching.

Yet Armitage never complained.

The Courser moved on stoically before Zimmer, his standard issue Institute laser rifle held in his hands; face a solemn mask hiding any emotion. The Gen 3 synth kept careful vigil, the recently liberated Chinese assault rifle on his back a testament to his abilities for violence. The pack of raiders hadn't known what hit them.

"We should be in range by now!" The scientist grumbled tapping the beacon yet again against his hand, "The unit didn't receive any damage in that last encounter."

"Could be interference." Armitage noted stoically, "The radiation seems exceptionally bad for the time of year."

"I've been gone far too long…" Zimmer grumbled, shoving his hands into the crumbled pockets of his dirty suit jacket in disgust. "We've made it this far Armitage, we can go a little farther."

"Hopefully then we'll pick up the signal again," the Courser stated, his synthetic tone somehow even more devoid of hope than before.

"But we got the escapee," Zimmer noted, patting the synthetic component the helpful young man had provided them back in Rivet City and trying to find some joy despite the dinginess of his current situation. "And spent considerable time ensuring no other synths were anywhere within the Capital Wasteland." It really had been a few long years. "That's what's important."

"Certainly doctor," the Courser noted, keeping his gaze forward towards the towering masses of long-dead Boston, "The thought of a renegade Courser bodes ill; it was worth the time and effort to ensure his termination."

"I hope there are reports regarding the Raven Rock and airport explosions," the head of the Synth Retention Department noted casually, shuddering as a cold gust of wind rushed past his lanky frame, "If the Enclave has, in fact, been crippled or destroyed, it bodes well for the future of mankind."

"They would have proven difficult," Armitage stated without further comment, noting the point as if it were obvious. One of the organizations Enclave or Institute would have had to go, it was simple mathematics.

"I'm still troubled by the lack of response to my teleportation signal," the doctor grumbled again, "If I only had my tools…"

The Courser cut him off with a sharp hiss and wave of his hand, "Dr Zimmer, someone is coming, get behind me sir." Zimmer didn't hesitate, drawing his Institute laser pistol and clutching it against his chest. The Courser stood tall, shielding Zimmer with his body, glancing all around him stoically, laser rifle in hand.

What they saw was utterly unexpected.

The band rushing to meet them wasn't a pack of bloodthirsty raiders or enraged Super Mutants. Instead he saw three Gen 1 synths, their frames blackened and scarred, simple damage that should have long since been repaired. Each held a weapon, yet none were standard laser rifles like the one belonging to his bodyguard, rather, crude pipe and ballistic weapons were held in skeletal fingers. Leading the trio of battered synths was the dark uniformed form of another Courser. More importantly it was a Courser that Zimmer recognized.

X6-88 held up a hand for the other synths to halt, which they did on his command, "Dr Zimmer," he stated respectfully, "Welcome back to the Commonwealth."

Zimmer had more questions than anything else. However, being the good scientist the first he managed to utter was simply, "What is Ayo doing allowing these units out in such poor condition!" He jabbed his laser pistol towards the Gen 1s with gusto, "And what has been going on with the teleporter? I haven't been able to get reception! And we're well within the Commonwealth's borders! We have been for hours!"

X6-88 shook his head sadly, "Dr Zimmer," he stated softly, "You've been away from the Commonwealth for far too long. A great deal has changed."

"Well, don't leave me hanging! Tell me!"

And the Courser did just that.

* * *

Maxson didn't speak; he walked away from Alexander across the room towards the end table, picking up the opened bottle of vodka and two glasses. The general patted his uniform for his pockets, which he'd somehow misplaced despite wearing the jacket almost every day.

His hands were shaking as they fell across the packet of cigarettes, fingers trembling as he removed one. Fortunately, Arthur's back was towards him and he didn't see the obvious signs of nervousness. When Alexander spoke his voice was crisp and steady, "Do you mind if I smoke, Elder Maxson?"

"I do not." He responded rigidly filling both glasses with a similar amount of clear alcohol. Alexander's match had brilliantly lit up the end of the cigarette, extending the smell of burning tobacco around the room as Arthur turned, handing the glass tumbler to the other man.

Alexander blew out a puff of smoke before taking a long sip of the vodka. It burned all the way down his throat and yet that discomfort was nothing compared to the anxiety he felt in Arthur Maxson's silent prescience.

 _Just yell at me already, I hate waiting, let's just start the screaming._

The young Elder continued his silence, dark eyes staring holes in Alexander's chest. Finally, after what may have been forever, with a small sip of vodka, Maxson said, "Valentine. Really Alexander?" His tone was brutal, unyielding and darkly angry, yet it hadn't increased in volume one octave.

"The people of Diamond City voted…" The general began, the cigarette leaving a thick trail of smoke as he gestured.

"Don't bullshit me." Maxson interjected, voice maintaining the normal volume of speech, "I know you had something to do with that choice. Nick is close to you, always was. You never really respected the Codex! The rules of our order!" His volume was beginning to rise and Alexander almost noticed a faint trembling in Arthur's closed fist, "You parade around with that synth, knowing full well the danger he represents! You play god with humanity's future!"  
"Nick is my friend!" Alexander downed the vodka angrily, slamming the empty glass down on the table in a flutter of papers, "He helped me find my son! He gave me a job! He saved my life!"

"You know what he is! And you want that…thing speaking for the Commonwealth?"

"Diamond City did!" He snapped back, taking a long puff on his cigarette to calm his shattered nerves, "They chose him, along with a few others, and you will respect that choice. The Minutemen uphold democracy within the United Commonwealth and you agreed to respect our democratic process outside of Brotherhood territory!"

"You're standing in Brotherhood territory right now." Maxson noted grimly, finishing his vodka and refilling the glass with more, "At this spot, Codex is law. And the Codex is very clear about synths, ghouls and the other abominations you happily waltz around with." He fixed the general with a dark, withering stare, "You knew the Codex once and then threw it away."

"The meeting will be held in Minutemen territory, where the rules of Codex do not apply." Dropping the cigarette to the floor, Alexander ground it under foot, "Under Minutemen law we respect all beings, based on the nature of their character and not their creation. I'm sure the people of the Capital Wasteland will appreciate that fact, considering the nature of some of their delegates."

The two men stared across the room at each other, Alexander willing his body to show no sign of the nervousness coursing through it. It was a delicate balance he had to walk. He needed Maxson's support, there was no doubt about it, his troops helped keep the peace and Alexander didn't want to jeopardize their alliance foolishly. Besides, if it came to blows the Sole Survivor wasn't convinced he'd win.

However, there was more at stake, there was unity in the new America he was trying to build, there was a respect and peace he had to establish. While Elder Maxson was more than invited to be part of that rebirth, and share in the reward, he alone couldn't be allowed to dictate how it was accomplished.

"I think you may have interpreted the Codex differently than I did, but that doesn't mean I don't esteem it as highly as you do." Alexander spoke those words with more care than he showed anything save trying to calm Cait when her temper was up.

"I don't care about any of your excuses for your disregard of Brotherhood tradition." Maxson growled looking somehow distraught even as his face was a mask of rage.

"This really isn't about Nick Valentine, is it?" The general hazarded the guess knowing full well what the answer would be. "This is about one other area of disagreement."

"You stole my best officer." Maxson snarled, downing the contents of his glass, filling it for a third time.

"I'd hardly call it…"

"My best Paladin! Replaced by a synth right under my very nose! And you convinced me to spare the life of that abomination…" Maxson took a sip of the clear alcohol steady, silent, "I should have been vigilant. I should have pulled the trigger…"

"You knew killing Danse was wrong," Alexander stated, cautiously moving forward a step, "You knew you couldn't take the life of a loyal Paladin, no matter how he was made."

"I should have done it. How can I call myself Elder and not protect my own." The words were tinged with a deeper layer of grief that suggested more than Danse was being discussed, though Alexander had no idea of what.

"It's not a mistake. You did the right thing because you know, inside, you know that Danse would never betray the ideals of the Codex. That he was just as crushed to learn the truth as you and you couldn't punish him for that."

"I should have," Maxson growled, "I should have pulled the trigger." There was a moment of silence and Alexander considered drawing a second cigarette out of his packet before Maxson became further agitated, he turned towards Alexander and snarled, "I agreed to spare the synth's life on the condition that he leave the Brotherhood and disappear, you convinced me to do that! And now you take him into your own ranks? Promote him until he's one of your top commanders and parade him around like a trophy? How are we supposed to keep the Commonwealth protected with you blatantly ignoring the real danger of synths?"

"Danse is my friend!" Alexander responded, unwilling to back down in any sense, "And he's a damn good soldier! He's run ops your best wouldn't dream of! He's held squads together that should have broken in two. I don't give a damn about whether he came from a womb or a tube I want him on my side." He walked around the table, hand tapping nervously against the polished mahogany that Maxson had brought in. "He was alone in the basement of that outpost, happy to be alive but without joy, without purpose. Danse needed to soldier and I needed leaders."

The general picked up a sheet of paper, numbers he recognized crudely scrawled across it in the cramped, furious style of Proctor Quinlan. "You've seen the breakdown of my numbers. I've got plenty of manpower and willing troops but I've got almost no one with any real military experience." He held up his hands, "I've got Ronnie, Preston, Macready, Colder and that ghoul who just signed up, Bones, and no one else. Danse is a valuable resource and a friend besides; just because you decided to throw away his support because of his condition doesn't mean I will or have too."

The two men glared at each other, Alexander steeling himself for a blow from the younger, stronger man, but ultimately it never came. Maxson sighed and turned his back, facing the Prydwyn's windows. "I assume he'll be at this conference?" It was tinged with a tone of one already knowing an answer but wishing it were otherwise.

"Yes in full Minutemen regalia." There was no denying it and there was no hesitation. He wasn't holding a delegation without Danse.

Maxson shifted and his posture suggested another barrage of commentary regarding the general's choice was staff was forthcoming when Lancer Captain Kells barged into the room, clutching a portable radio in his hands. "I understand you weren't to be disturbed, Elder Maxson but I've got Kodiak on the line back in DC. Elder, he's found something you'll want to hear about, right now."

Clearly trusting the judgment of his senior staff, Arthur motioned for the receiver, "Alright, pass it over." As Kells plopped the unit into his hands, the Brotherhood's Elder Maxson took the microphone and spoke into in firmly, "Paladin Kodiak, report."

The crackle of static ended and Alexander could faintly hear the sound of a man's voice on the other end of the radio, yet between the static and faintness of the tone he couldn't make out the exact words.

However, whatever had been said held a profound impact for Maxson. The young elder's face went pale and he visibly shook. "What?"

The solitary word came so softly that the general almost missed it. Maxson was confident, he was steel and fire and yet the word sounded so full of disbelief that Alexander actually doubted Arthur had spoken it.

The gargled voice of the DC Paladin spoke again, words still having the same impact on the young Elder. If it hadn't been for Arthur's ramrod posture he may have collapsed and, even despite years of training he shuddered.

"I understand. Run the necessary tests." Handing the radio over to Kells, Maxson turned to face Alexander, "This meeting is adjourned. Bring whoever you want to the conference. I'll see you in a few days." The tone and posture were robotic, Maxson's face blank, as if he couldn't comprehend the news he'd received.

Rather than arguing or probing for further information Alexander simply nodded respectfully, turned and left the office, closing the door behind him. Hancock was leaning lazily against the bulkhead, arms folded, "What's got Maxson's metal shorts in a knot?"

"I'll be honest with you, John, I have no idea." Alexander shook his head, removing his tricorn hat and running a gloved hand through hair damp with sweat.

 _I had no idea how nervous I was in there…_

Hands shaking the Sole Survivor fetched a fresh cigarette from the crumpled packet in his jacket, managing to light the tobacco stick despite the quivering in his limbs. Taking a long draft of sweet tasting smoke, feeling the gentle tickle down his throat, Alexander sighed outward. "Hancock, old friend, I'm nervous about this."

"Oh?" The ghoul mayor continued his casual posture, seeming oblivious to Alexander's concern, "What's got you spinning your wheels?"

"We've already got plenty of competing factions, and now something has Maxson spooked." Another puff of cigarette smoke, another long pause, "We all need to be on our toes, regardless of how safe we might feel." Alexander flicked the smoldering remains of the cigarette over the Prydwen's railing, watching the smoking butt fall away before his eyes. "I'm heading back to Sanctuary Hills to prepare for our guests. You do the same in Goodneighbor and bring more guns than you planned. This meeting could change the future of human history and nothing can be allowed to disrupt it."

* * *

Danse ran a hand over the suit of X01 power armor resting in the corner of his small home, taking in the brand new paintjob with a mixture of pride and sorrow. The blue of the Minutemen shone proudly outward, with the crossed musket and lightning bolt resting above the heart. Putting his paintgun down, the former Brotherhood of Steel Paladin pondered exactly what exactly it was that had brought him to this place.

He couldn't trust his past, he couldn't trust his memories, he couldn't even trust his personality. It was nothing but programming, motherboards and wiring. Someone sitting in a lab had programmed him, made him who he was, a joke, a farce.

Gazing across the living room towards the dogtags hanging on the wall, Danse pictured his time in the Brotherhood, and those he worked with. It had been a good haul, the best years of his life. But he wasn't a Paladin anymore.

Sitting down in the overstuffed armchair that faced his television, radio and old Brotherhood flag, the man closed his eyes and rested for a few moments. He had plenty of work to do; being a Colonel for the Minutemen wasn't all medals and glamour.

That was one thing he could trust, Alexander Blackwood, his general. He knew the value of Danse's service; he knew the value of his person. He looked Danse in the eye after discovering the true nature of his identity and valued him just as much, even as Danse held no value for himself.

He was reclining in the chair, letting himself sink deep into the plush fabric, when a sharp rap came at his front door. Feeling his drowsiness chased away, the colonel pushed himself upward with a growl, "I'm coming! I'll be right there!" Stomping across his tattered old rug and picking up his laser rifle from its resting place on the shelf adjacent to the door, Danse peaked out the window, noting the identity of the knocker.

Codsworth, the general's faithful Mr. Handy, floated nervously outside the door, holding his bowler hat in one pincer, appearing sheepish. Keeping the rifle in his hand out of force of habit but pointing it well away from the visitor, he threw the door open. "Codsworth," he stated casually, "What can I do for you?"

"Begging your pardon, sir," the Mr. Handy admitted embarrassed, "I understand you have retired for the evening but we have a situation that requires an order from the ranking officer."

Snapping back into the role of soldier in a heartbeat Danse slung the rifle across his back, "What's the problem, Cogsworth?"

"Best that I show you, sir," the robot admitted, waving with his buzzsaw for the colonel to follow him. Stepping out the doorway, Danse closed and locked it, stepping out onto the road.

Despite the lateness of the day Sanctuary Hills was bustling. From his front door he could see the bridge, freshly rebuilt, lined with turrets and guard towers ensuring that the only way past the surrounding wall was well protected. The flags were snapping with the stiff breeze, the statue of the ancient patriot, musket in hand, looked proudly towards the horizon. He could see the local artillery piece, manned faithfully by Deborah, the solider who'd happily signed on to work with the big gun. "Afternoon colonel!" She greeted cheerily, snapping a sharp salute beneath the brim of her dark purple cowboy hat, color brilliantly contrasting against her dark-skin.

Danse returned the salute but said nothing, following Codsworth deeper into Sanctuary Hills. He passed the bazaar, various shops and stalls surrounded by a small wire fence. Men and women crowded about, trading caps for goods or bartering, the sounds of conversations and exchanges drowning out the music crackling over the radio set straight from Diamond City.

Across the street from the bazaar, a word Alexander used but Danse never understood, was a refurbished home that served as the communications and command center for the Minutemen forces in Sanctuary Hills. From inside the building, Struges waved before returning to his monitoring station.

Ada stomped down the road past the duo, between several mooing pack Brahmin without comment. A fully armed squad of Minutemen troops moved past, ready to begin the long patrol from New Sanctuary all the way to Lexington, a road that, once was almost certain death but now was typically nothing more than a few radstags grazing or, if you were lucky, some molerats slipping through the lines.

The chuckling of a young boy filled his ears and Danse noted Shaun rushing by in a blaze, pursued by the slobbering forms of Cuddles and Yogi, the half "tame" Yao-guai the general was attempting to domesticate. Danse was skeptical of the Beta Wave Emitter but it proved successful so far, though he'd seen the limited attempts at interacting with the two mutated bears when it was disabled and wasn't impressed. Still, the emitter would hold and that would be the end of it…hopefully.

Danse glanced after Shaun as he passed by, happily playing with the massive creatures and felt, as always, a certain kinship with the boy, based on their shared heritage. Though Shaun had the luxury of blissful ignorance Danse often wondered how long that ignorance would last, certainly the Paladin wouldn't be the one to tell the boy, but it'd still be a shock no matter how it was delivered. Danse himself still wasn't sure what being a synth made him and he'd been processing the information for months.

Clearing the thoughts from his mind, Danse pressed forward after Codsworth, passing by the general's home. The American and Minutemen flag fluttered proudly in the autumn wind before a house that had been the subject of much repair efforts and now sported a lawn of green grass accompanied by gnomes and flamingos. Trimming the property's hedges with a whistle on his lips was the ghoulish former Vault-Tech rep whose name Danse had never bothered to learn. The ghoul always seemed in high spirits, likely the result of Alexander's subtle encouragement. The general held an uplifting effect on people, something Danse knew well.

As he kept following the Mr. Handy, Danse passed the large church Alexander had built. The brilliant glint of sunlight against glass suggested MacCready was still perched in the bell tower, scanning the horizon for any sign of potentially brewing trouble.

Across from the church stood the Sanctuary Hills medical center, fully equipped with sterile rooms, surgical equipment and supplies readily available. From her office Curie waved towards, as she fondly called him, "Misoure Danse." He returned the expression with a wave of his own, moving past quickly before she could get a proper look at him.

They were nearing the end of settled area, past "Bob's Place," a small bar run by Bob, one of the General's protectrons, the massive fields of corn and razorgrain and the giant stills hard at work producing rum and moonshine for the town's consumption. Several shacks were under construction to accommodate the increased population, but work had ceased for the day and thus the workers were either sleeping in their tents or off milling about the town.

Reaching the scrap wall beyond the final house of the original Sanctuary Hills, now settled and occupied by one Preston Garvey, when he wasn't stationed at the Castle, Danse found a motley collection of individuals milling around something that disturbed him far more than it should. There was a hole in the wall, halfway man-sized, edges smooth with a precision nature was incapable of crafting.

Kneeling before the hole was the cantankerous sailor Old Longfellow, native of the Minutemen colony of Far Harbor, who greatly preferred life in the United Commonwealth proper. His old peacoat stank of cigar smoke, rum and filth; his white beard brown with dirt and face a mixture of deep wrinkles and ugly old scars.

Beside the veteran hunter, hunched low over the ground and seeming to sniff it, was the man Danse knew only as Deacon. Danse didn't particularly like Deacon, he was too mysterious, too empty, too dodgy about himself. Alexander trusted him, claiming Deacon had saved his life more than once so Danse let him stay, but he wasn't happy about it. Honestly the Minutemen's newest Colonel couldn't say what Deacon actually contributed to Sanctuary and he was always leaving without explanation. His presence around the hole did nothing to improve the synth's feelings about the situation.

Finally, and somehow more unnerving than the man shaped-enigma named Deacon, was Rodger. Rodger was a robobrain, salvaged from the lair of the dreaded Mechanist and repaired by Alexander, who for all intents and purposes seemed utterly friendly and agreeable to Minutemen goals, yet the exposed brain coupled with the expressionless metallic form disturbed Danse more than he cared to admit.

"As you can see, sir," Codsworth announced with a wave of his flamethrower towards the hole, "We've got a touch of a problem."

"Discovered it while sneaking off in an attempt to find some peace and quiet," Deacon stated with far too much cheer in his voice, eyes hidden behind those dark sunglasses, "I've got to catch up on my Hemmingway." The tattered old copy of _The Old Man and the Sea_ clutched in his hands confirmed, if nothing else, Deacon owned said book.

"Analysis suggest this is a man made opening," Rodger computed in his robotic monotone, snatching up a shard of sheet metal with his pincer like hands for further investigation. "My scanners would suggest a laser pistol, turned to a lower than average power setting and used in a slicing fashion to cut open the parameter wall."

"I've never seen a tree with a laser pistol," Danse muttered under his breath as if the robobrain shouldn't have bothered suggesting it was anything but manmade.

Old Longfellow gingerly picked up a few bent blades of grass, sniffed them and let them fall. Licking the tips of his fingers, the sailor tapped them against what Danse assumed was a bootprint, feeling around in the dirt for a few moments. "Track's are fresh, recent, not more than a few days."

Rather than ask Longfellow how he could possibly know that, Danse let him continue, the old man had forgotten more about tracking and hunting than the synth would like ever learn, even with potential immorality.

 _Will I age? Is that possible? Or am I going to exist in a half-life forever?_

"How'd we not notice the intrusion? The sabotage of the wall?" The Minutemen's newest Colonel asked the assembled band of men and robots with the drill sergeant tone sneaking back into his voice.

"A stealth boy has got to be involved," Deacon didn't hesitate, "That'd allow whoever did this to move around Sanctuary Hills with relative freedom…provided he had enough boys."

"And I'll bet he replaced the missing chunk of metal when he was in here." Longfellow stood up, taking his lever-action rifle off his back. "I'll poke around in the woods for a bit, but I bet you anything I'll find that metal back there."

"Perhaps the wind blew it away? Or someone bumped into it?" Codsworth wondered aloud, floating past the others to the other side of Sanctuary's wall. "Regardless, this is a frightening development."

"Until this wall is repaired I want someone stationed here around the clock," Danse jabbed towards the hole. "That means until its welded back into place or this section is replaced with an entirely new one." He turned to Codsworth, "Find Sturges, get him to slap something over this hole until we can make proper repairs I don't care what it is."

"We've got another problem," Rodger announced, rolling forward, "We have no way of knowing who would do such a thing, or why?" The robobrain gestured towards the hole with a tubular arm, "Someone took the time to perform this act of sabotage. Why? What could they hope to gain?" He began rolling towards the command center with clear purpose despite lack of facial features, "I'll begin a through examination of our inventory. If anything is missing we might have an idea of who is behind this."

"Deacon," Danse ordered, "Read your Hemmingway by the wall for now," before the man could protest Danse plowed over him, "I'll establish a rotating guard order in time but for now we need to know if anyone comes close to this position. Understood?"

"I guess so, but hey, do me a favor, fetch me a lawn chair will you?"

Danse sighed.

 _I can't wait for the General to return_.

* * *

In the rotting carcass of an old transmission tower overlooking the Minutemen capital of Sanctuary Hills, Pickman put down his binoculars and picked up his sandwich. It seems his handiwork had been discovered and was being thoroughly investigated.

The first bite into the sandwich was less pleasant than he'd imagined, his razorgrain loaf would need work, yet even that unpleasantry couldn't keep him from smiling.

His reconnaissance had been more than successful; when the fireworks began he'd know exactly where to go and how to get there. He knew what he was looking for and the best way to go about it. By the time the people of Sanctuary Hills realized who walked among them it would be far too late. He'd be gone like the wind.

His gaze fell upon the hushed form of Vault 111, still, frozen in time. "Soon," he whispered, his voice carrying over to the silent metal giant who'd not been awakened for some time, "Soon you'll give up what I need. Don't worry."  
He smiled and took another bite of the sandwich.

* * *

 _Alexander Blackwood's Journal_

 _I miss the food of the pre-war world but today I managed to brew a cup of coffee that almost vaguely reminded me of Slocum Joe's, so I guess it isn't all bad. My life is like that now, building pale reflections of what I've lost._

 _Food, world, career…even family._

 _Nora, I miss you every day, Shaun…son…I wish things had been different, more than anything I wish things had been different. I want you both here with me._

 _But I love Cait, and new Shaun, I love them both so much it hurts and some days, when I wake beside my darling Irish girl I wonder how I could have lived without her. That scares me, the guilt that overwhelms me after such a thought. How could I turn my back on you, Nora? How could I love so fully again after what happened with Kellogg? Yet I do, man of two worlds that I am, torn between what was and what is._

 _And sometimes, when I'm alone with my thoughts I really thinking, I'm scared of just how much I love this new world and how little I miss the old…_


	4. Good Morning Capital Wasteland

_I don't remember much about my father. I don't think I ever met him. He beat me, or at least, I assume so. Why else am I the way I am?_

* * *

"This Council is most displeased with you, Obadiah Blackhall." The statement was full of menace, deep anger and serious threat. Despite the long life and dark power behind Obadiah Blackhall those words made him nervous. Not that he was going to show it, you didn't spend decades among the denizens of Point Lookout and not learn how to hide fear. The swampfolk could sniff out nervousness faster than Littlehorn could ever dream, and they pounced quicker.

The room was dark, musty, the smell of parchment, mould and old leather almost overbearing all senses. There was a tomb-like feel about the air, perhaps it was the solid concrete that made up the ancient structure, or the flickering torches that somehow cast the room in a deeper darkness despite their flickering light.

Aside from the long wooden table and simple wooden chairs, the room was empty save the torches…and the obelisk. It was an ancient, gnarled thing, hewn from some sort of dark marble or ebony, a relic not only of the Pre-war world, but, somehow, a time before that. It seemed to shift when one wasn't looking, the carved faces almost sliding about the otherwise smooth pillar, ancient carved runes vanishing and reappearing.

And then there was the whispering, the constant, comforting and gentle whispering that was always in the background in holy places like this one, signifying the presence of Ug-Qualtoth, the ever-changing god of chaos and Obadiah's master.

The High Priest of Ug-Qualtoth stood his ground, pointing a weathered finger towards Daniel Littlehorn's withered face, "How dare this council criticize me?" His voice rose, bouncing off the walls of the basement tomb. "Me! The High Priest? The one who's forefathers built this faith! Who discovered the ancient truths beneath the ground and who ensured all of you had a place at this table!"

He gestured with that same pointer finger towards the five simple wooden chairs where the council sat. Two of those chairs were empty and, depending on the ruling of the rest of the council, Obadiah might never sit in his again.

The three figures who sat in judgment were bathed in the darkness, hidden by the shadows and yet Obadiah knew them better than any other beings. There was the short man with no name, a being as old as Blackhall himself and yet, more sinister, chaotic, almost mad. His face wracked in a near permanent smile of pure psychotic lust. The short man killed for love, for fun, not for a higher purpose. He was an agent of chaos and thus blessed by the ever changing god.

Then, next to the miniature killer was the doctor. He sat, bloody labcoat draped across his thin shoulders, bearded face a blank mask, thoughts consumed with mathematics and experiments. The loss of The Surgeon had hit the council hard, derailed far too many plans, but Ug-Qualtoth had provided. The doctor said very little, but like the Surgeon before him there was some connection to the pre-war world, to the sciences man discarded out of fear. He was relatively new to the ancient order and, to Blackhall, still somewhat a mystery.

Yet those two men were nothing to Obadiah, they were important, yes, but their roles were separate, controllable. They followed the will of the god and thus the priest, however, it was the keeper of the books, Daniel Littlehorn, that was the true threat. Littlehorn was a schemer, a climber and a man who certainly felt the dark blessings just as Blackhall did.

Littlehorn's wire-rim glasses sat on the tip of a hawk nose, face a roadmap of wrinkles and hair a few wispy strands of ghostly white. His dark suit was impeccably maintained, fitting for a man of his reputation and means. Daniel was the owner of Littlehorn and Associates, the finest assassin's guild in the post-war world. Besides that, he owned several caravan chains and one massive army of mercenaries. They were battered but despite recent struggles, remained as ready as ever for carnage, carnage they were paid to create.

Daniel leaned forward on the table, wrinkled hands knotting before him, "You call yourself High Priest, Obadiah Blackhall, you have the audacity to claim that title after what you've done?" There was fire behind those words, a righteous fury that was mingled with jealousy, "You lost the master's army to one man! Your flock was shattered and broken, killed off while you watched! And, worst of all, a sin that we all know you committed, that is unforgivable." Obadiah knew what condemnation was coming and yet he was still stung by them, "You lost the Krivbeknih, the sacred word of Ug-Qualtoth, you let the blasphemer, the man from the Vault, take it and destroy it! He burned the sacred writing beneath Dunwich!"

"You left me on Point Lookout due to your own petty jealousies, Littlehorn, your jealousy that I hear the words of the ever-changing one and you do not." Obadiah did not shout those words, he didn't have to. They were challenge enough with true power behind them. The god spoke to only one and, as long as that one was Blackhall, he had legitimacy that was unassailable.

"Yes, but…"

Yet Obadiah cut Littlehorn off, plowing forward without pause, "While you kept me on the island, for the sole purpose of feeding your vanity, the blasphemer took the Krivbeknih and destroyed it, under your watch, I may add." Daniel said nothing, could say nothing, "And, as if allowing that desecration was not enough, he killed a member of this council! The Surgeon! Murdered by the blue man while you, Daniel Littlehorn, with all your schemes, plotting, soldiers and wealth, did nothing to stop it."

"That's true…" The small man stated in a sing-song voice, standing up on his chair and still not quite as tall as Littlehorn was while sitting, "We lost years of research and progress, if we hadn't found the bearded Doctor…" His words came out as a maniacal melody, a dark song of malice, directed exclusively towards Littlehorn.

"But why lose the book?" Daniel asked with a tone that, while certainly not meek, felt notably more reserved. Obadiah smiled, feeling the shift in power ever so slightly roll in his favor.

"I follow the will of Ug-Qualtoth, not you, or any other mortal man. His plan was to allow the blasphemer to be drawn into a trap and ensnared; it is not up to me that you allowed this desecration to occur." The final nail in the coffin, Blackhall knew he wasn't going to be removed and replaced.

As if he were reading the other man's mind the Doctor added, "Without Pickman can we even have this vote? He's needed, for if we are to remove the High Priest we must have the artist's say, one way or another."

Defeated, Littlehorn waved for Blackhall to continue, "Very well, the Blackhall line will continue in their role as High Priest. We must move on to pressing business."

"Pickman has spoken with me," Obadiah stated casually, another bit of information he'd held onto until it was useful, "The situation in the United Commonwealth will be ready for our actions, in a few mere days. If Littlehorn can get the troops in place everything will be done according to Ug-Qualtoth's will."

"I've spent a year getting the necessary forces to their appointed locations, paying the necessary bribes and tolls. If the Doctor has properly finished his work and Pickman has recruited allies in the field, everything should be ready." Littlehorn wasn't pleased but he was, if nothing else, professional and thus was willing to put aside his grievances for the sake of the ever changing god.

"My work is done. The subjects are filtering among the tribes as we speak," the Doctor scratched his beard without change in expression, " And I've already found a location in the Commonwealth for us to relocate ourselves until the alignment is complete."

"Really?" The killer asked with head cocked to the side like an owl, "You found a place where the boot of the Minutemen can't squash us? I find that hard to believe." Despite the mania of the individual in question it was an excellent point.

"The United Commonwealth is far better controlled than the Capital Wasteland," Obadiah admitted, "I understand that we must be present for the alignment but I have not heard a safe place for us to set up camp."

The Doctor smiled, "I have and I'll take you there presently, if you're willing."

"There's no time like the present," Littlehorn admitted, pushing himself away from the table. "We need to meet with Pickman and understand the situation. Time is precious, and the window of opportunity is closing."

The ever changing god had made his will know and the wise man would listen. Obadiah considered himself wise and thus, listened.

* * *

Three Dog yawned, leaning backwards in a massive stretch that ended with a satisfying crack of his back. "Margaret! I need some damn coffee, or this broadcast isn't happening! I'm dying out here! It's too damn early!" The disc jockey's words reverberated throughout the GNR station, bouncing off the walls, tinted with the same jovial attitude that he intended.

"Alright, alright! It's coming, keep your shirt on!" As the request has been initially treated with humor, the response given by the tech was similar. The sound of a coffee pot bubbling followed the exchange of words, the smell of roasting grinds filling the brightly lit building with its pleasant aroma.

Three Dog pinched the brim of his nose, keeping his bloodshot eyes hidden behind the dark sunglasses he considered his trademark item. After all, all the pre-war jockeys had some kind of symbol, so it seemed fitting the best one in the post-war world do the same. No other DJ had his style, no other DJ had his charisma, though admittedly some had bigger collections of records and holotapes it was Three Dog himself that kept the folks at home coming back to GNR, and that was good enough for the Dog.

The smell of coffee drew closer as Margaret entered the recording studio, the ceramic GNR mug in her hand steaming with the sweet scent of coffee. The off-white of the ceramic contrasted brilliantly against the darkness of her skin, her face crinkled with amusement, "Here's your energy mud, oh lord of the disks." She passed the mug to Three Dog with a smile, "We're on in five."

"Margaret, you're absolutely an angel, you know that?" He flashed his most charming smile before taking a sip of the coffee, feeling the warmth spread down his throat all the way to the tips of his toes. "That's the good stuff."

"I know," Margaret said bluntly, arms crossed, "Made it myself, and I don't ever make crap." Honestly, without his technician, running the radio station would prove impossible and Three Dog knew it.

Tapping his fingers against his forehead in a casual salute, Three Dog stated, "You're a doll, Marge, now let's get the radio waves crackling huh, the people gotta know what's going down." Margaret nodded her agreement and scampered off across the studio toward the bank of computers, settling down comfortably in the battered old office chair that she favored for the work.

Three Dog watched the clock tick down, keeping his eye fixed on the red light above his microphone, the evening's prerecorded messages and music tracks were about to finish and, in typical Dog fashion, he wanted to be ready.

As soon as the "on air" light turned a brilliant crimson, Three Dog leaned in close and began, "Heeeellllllooooo Wasteland! It's Three Dog your handsome host, welcoming you to another beautiful morning in the DC hellhole! How's everyone doing?" He paused, taking another sip of coffee and imagining anyone listening speaking back to their radio. The image amused him.

"Me? Well thanks for asking, I'm doing just dandy," Three Dog answered the imaginary figures warmly, "Now, listen children, I know what the big talk around town is, what everybody's thinking about. I'm sorry to say kids; old Three Dog won't be at the meeting with the United Commonwealth. I know, I'm crushed, but someone has to keep ya'll company." He leaned backward in his chair, putting his feet up on the desk and draining his coffee, "Don't worry, the savior from 101 will be going, so you can bet your bottom dollar that he's got our best interests at heart. He'll tell old Three Dog everything he needs to know when he gets back. What'd we get out of all this? Alliances, stability, I don't know, trade? Listen, I'm just a newsman, what do I know right?" He chuckled, letting his warm laugh ripple across the airwaves.

"Look kids, I appreciate your concerns, but apparently the Brotherhood of Steel set up this gig, you know, the guys who got us clean drinking water?" As if anyone could forget Project Purity and all that it had done, "Remember to drink your Aqua-pura kiddies. Now, what was I saying, oh yeah I remember, lets trust the big boys in the Power Armor, they've been good to us so far. Oh and if you see the kid from 101, tell him Three Dog says hi, and wants a souvenir from the Commonwealth. Doesn't have to be big, just something that says hey, look, a piece of genuine junk from another…country I suppose is the best way to put it." He paused, gesturing to Margaret to prepare another track of music.

"Until later, Three Dog signing off! I'll be back in five with more news. Don't go away, we're just getting started."

* * *

"Until later, Three Dog singing off! I'll be back in five with more news. Don't go away, we're just getting started." The crackle of the radio bounced around the sheet-metal walls of Charles' home. The Lone Wanderer pulled his pillow over his face with a grunt and rolled over, the silk of his pajamas whispering against the sheets.

"Five more minutes," he mumbled to himself, hoping that would be enough to dissuade his lover from her typical regimental adherence to a strict schedule. Unfortunately it did not.

"Come on Chuck! Up and at'em!" Riley announced loudly, swatting at Charles with her pillow, "We've got places to be, things to see, work to do, so let's get going!" Her bare feet slapped against the metal floor as she pattered away, "And your pajamas look ridiculous!"

While the words were tinted with good humor, Charles responded sulkily, "I think they look sexy." Still, it was hard to stay mad at Riley for long, particularly when her tanktop and shorts did little to hide the mercenary captain's small, yet toned and well maintained body. That wasn't why he loved her, of course, but it was a nice bonus.

As the music of Billie Holiday filtered across the airwaves the Lone Wander left the comfort of his bed, cracking his neck with a mighty yawn before reaching across his typewriter for the pack of Camel brand cigarettes. Lighting one up without hesitation, the man made his way across to the bathroom. If he was lucky he'd be able to empty the tank before they found him…

"Daddy!" The shrill voice squealed as he stepped across the doorway. Theo, his second son, came toddling across the floor as fast as his four-year old legs would carry him. And if Theo had found him the others wouldn't be far behind.

"Hey sport!" He told his son happily, scooping up the child with practiced ease. The boy was chubby enough with a ruddy complexion and his father's dark hair and eyes. His face beamed with excitement, eyes twinkling. Life wasn't easy for the young in this cruel world, and yet he thrived. He had a father that loved him, that'd always be there for him, who wasn't going to leave him. Charles wasn't his own father, he'd do things right.

"We're going today?" The words were slow, methodical, the child feeling his way around each one as he put the sentence together. Theo was learning his English best he could, and, despite his early age, he was making decent progress, though not like his brother...

"That's right," Charles told him, running his hand through the boy's shaggy mop of brown hair, "Have you ever flown before? It's really something, let me tell you."

"Just don't sit next to Jericho, he doesn't like flying." Riley told her son warmly, padding out of the next bedroom with the subtly exhausted looking two-year old Victoria curled up in her arms. "Don't want to be too close when he loses his lunch."

"Will he?" Theo asked, wide-eyed at the possibility that an adult might puke. To the younger son such an activity was reserved for children, not the mighty tall folk who staved off the monsters of the wasteland with gun and blade.

"Probably not," Charles admitted with a small grin, "I don't think he'll be eating at all." Considering that James, the eight-year old eldest of the mercenary couple's three children, hadn't made an appearance of his own that meant one possibility. He must have been down listening to the stories recounted by Charles most…unusual friend.

Sure enough, sitting in one of the armchairs, feet tucked beneath him, was young James. His hair was dull red, far less bold than his mother's dyed orange but certainly stronger than his father's brown. He had the bold blue eyes of his grandfather and namesake, his father's strong chin and inquisitive mind, mother's button nose and good humor. He was slight, like most children in the Capital Wasteland, though his cheeks held a healthy rosy tone and his soul burned brightly. Charles held no doubt that his eight year old son would grow up to be someone great. His armchair held up his slight frame just fine, but the same couldn't be said of his companion.

The armchairs with the red cushions were well built, constructed from sturdy pre-war materials and yet the one on the right groaned and buckled beneath the weight of its occupant. Fawkes was a Super Mutant and, in almost every sense, was the exact opposite of young James. Fawkes was a massive green skinned being, huge, hairless, body rippling with thick muscle and old scar tissue. His beady yellow eyes squinted behind his comically small wire-frame glasses, his oversize mouth opened and closed dramatically as he read aloud. Somehow, despite the bulkiness of his fat fingers, Fawkes turned the pages of the Grognak the Barbarian comic book tenderly, ensuring the old pages remained undamaged for future readings.

It seemed only yesterday that Charles stumbled across the friendly Super Mutant in the bowels of Vault 87, rather than the years it had been. Fawkes had proven a near constant companion since then, with similar intellectual and philosophical pursuits that left both men sharper after discussion. With likeminded goals about how to make the Capital Wasteland a better place they were a force to be reckoned with, the raiders and slavers quaking in their boots when the soft-spoken Super Mutant and the one-time preacher came to town. After Charles and Riley settled down as best as they could when James was on the way Fawkes declared he'd become the best uncle the children could ever had. Butcher, Riley's medic, challenged that ideal and the two had engaged in competitions to prove that they were the ultimate uncle. Fawkes' poorly knitted sweater, despite being shabbily made, far too large and with an extra sleeve, proved a smash hit with young Theo, who wore it as often as possible.

But James and Fawkes weren't the only two beings occupying the living room of Charles' Megaton home, with the oncoming trip to the United Commonwealth Charles was letting, much to Riley's well-contained chagrin, several of his traveling companions sleep over in the few days before the exodus. Admittedly, it was cramped and somewhat musty but Charles loved people, and was happy to have them.

Sleeping in a corner, body slumped over a simple metal chair, was Charles' faithful ghoul bodyguard Charon. His shotgun was cradled in his hands, boots still on his feet with Dogmeat sleeping comfortably against the ghoul. It never ceased to amaze Charles what Charon could sleep through, including Fawkes' dramatic account of the famed barbarian.

Sergeant RL-3 and Wadsworth were powered down in the opposing corner, both Mr. robots waiting for reactivation when the time was right. Jericho, having his own home, refused to share lodging for anyone save Butch DeLoria, Charles' old bully and the one traveling companion the ex-raider apparently trusted enough to share space with. Butch wouldn't be going to the United Commonwealth, which suited him just fine, Megaton needed someone to watch over it and the Tunnel Snake had no desire to leave the country.

"What happens to Grognak next?" James asked, gazing up towards the towering figure of Uncle Fawkes, his words interrupting Charles' thought process.

"I don't know," the Super Mutant rumbled, closing the comic book and placing it gently on the end table, "That's the end of the issue."

"But, does Grognak escape the cannibal bats?" The eldest son pressed, refusing to allow Fawkes to slip away. "I've read the story a bunch of times but dad was never able to find issue 232. I figured that maybe you'd seen it somewhere when you're out exploring."

"No such luck, I'm afraid," the Super Mutant admitted sheepishly, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his oversize nose. "But I know Grognak and I can speculate at his likelihood of success." The boy gazed up quizzically, clearly baffled by the torrent of words he didn't recognize. "Oh sorry, that means I have an idea if he'll make it."

"What is it?"

"Well," Fawkes leaned back in his chair, leading to another deep groan from the badly strained wood that, miraculously, held his massive bulk. "Grognak is quicker than the bats, and he's good with that axe of his. I'll bet he can roll aside from the alpha bat and then split him in half with a mighty axe blow! If the alpha is dead the others will flee."

"You think so? Because, that would really give him a chance to escape the cave with the princess." James stroked his small chin, resting his head in his hands, "We know he can smash a boulder with his hands, he did it in issue 134…"

"Fawkes, James! It's a big day! Let's get some food in our bellies and get dressed! We've got a vertibird to catch." Charles announced boldly, carrying Theo in one hand and resting his other against the wall. "What's in the fridge?"

It was a blur after that. Three kids were fed and dressed, two robots were powered up and lunches were prepared. Weapons were selected, instructions were given to faithful Wadsworth, who seemed positively peeved that Riley asked him to remember to feed the dog. After that barrage of activity it seemed almost shocking to Charles to find himself outside his home, blinking in the morning sun.

Jericho slammed his door behind him as he exited the shack he owned, grinding a cigarette butt under foot before reaching for another. Butch, for his part, seemed happy in the sunlight, finding a smoke of his own. "Boss," was the extent of the bandit's greeting, followed closely by the snap of the lighter and burning smell of tobacco. Theo waved at Jericho but was pointedly ignored. Still, the smile on the child's lips didn't falter.

Charles led his merry band of misfits and family down towards the bomb that Megaton was named for, long since disarmed and now serving as a rallying point for those citizens that called Megaton home. Riley's Rangers, Butcher, Brick and Donavan exited Gob's saloon, yawning, stretching and, in Donavan's case, finishing a can of cram. The sight of their captain, decked out head to toe in the unique combat armor that signified her rank, seemed to invigorate the mercs, leading to a trio of sharp salutes as they worked their way over to Riley.

Behind them came Gob, the most famous ghoul living in Megaton and owner of the saloon once bearing the name Moriarty. He seemed positively cheery, a bright new sweater vest on his body and a skip in his step. Charles hadn't killed Moriarty, he didn't know who had done it, but it was hard to feel bad about it. The old owner had been a right bastard and abused the poor ghoul for far too long. The new life that Gob had inherited filled him with joy and, quite frankly, improved the mood of the town as a whole.

Lucas Simms, mayor and sheriff was already present, his uniform cleaned to the best of his ability, sheriff's badge polished and shining, ten-gallon hat resting firmly in place showcasing, for all to see, that Simms was the leader of Megaton and he'd been chosen by his people to best represent their interests.

One of those others who'd taken up a position of defending Megaton's rights was Moria Brown, eccentric store owner and staple of the community. Honestly, Charles was skeptical about bringing Moria, for multiple reasons ranging from what he considered to be mild insanity all the way to an inability to function in slightly more "couth" society. Yet the people of Megaton had spoken and Charles was, if nothing else, a champion of democracy.

Approaching Simms with the determination that came from the title of Lone Wander, shiny new Chinese assault rifle hanging from his shoulder, Charles spoke, "Sheriff, you look well."

"And you." Lucas responded with a firm handshake, "Are you ready to change the world? Well, change it again in your case." The throwaway reference to Project Purity and the destruction of the Enclave wasn't lost on Charles.

"I'm just a man, Lucas," the Lone Wanderer responded, rubbing the mop of hair on Theo's head, "Nothing special about me."

"Yeah," the sheriff didn't seem entirely convinced. "Right, just a man." He shook his head, "Because getting back from Point Lookout and The Pitt wasn't miraculous." He paused, looking across the crowd of misfits that had gathered around the bomb. It was a large crowd, diverse and, in some sense, bizarre, yet oddly appropriate given the eclectic nature of Megaton itself.

Riley seemed happy enough chatting with her mercenary band while Donavan, unsuccessfully, tried to convince Victoria to smile at him. The toddler, unsurprisingly, refused to grace the techie with her favor. Charles laughed at the sight, his daughter was fickle with her affections and really only had time for Riley.

"What time do you got? On the Pipboy?" Lucas asked Charles, shattering the man's simple observation of his only daughter's admirer, "I'm going to have to get this herd of Brahmin moving soon because the Brotherhood is going to send the vertibirds at 11 sharp, and you know how punctual they can be."

A quick glance towards the wrist-mounted computer showed the time clearly, "10:55."

"Alright then," Lucas doffed his hat and cleared his throat dramatically, "Alright, people of Megaton! Listen up!" The mulling sounds of the crowd faded away to nothing, as the dozen or so milling Megatonians turned their gaze towards the man who all considered their leader. "We've been chosen to help make a better world! For all of us!" He paused, looking across the gathered faces, seeing individuals he'd known for years. "We all remember when the Brotherhood, with the help of our very own Lone Wander," he pointed at Charles dramatically for emphasis, Charles, for his part, shrank down and tried to avoid the attention. "Cleaned the water!" He carried on loudly, "How they beat back the Enclave and allowed our cities to live in peace! Now we have the chance to repay them." He paused, removing the cowboy hat from his head solemnly, "Now, we, and all other free cities within the Capital Wasteland, have been offered terms of an alliance with our neighbors to the south, the United Commonwealth. Things are going pretty well for those guys from what I can tell and I'm honestly not sure why they'd reach out their hands to us, but we're going to take them. By the time we're done, this portion of our lands will be safe, secure." He looked the crowd in the eyes, his face solemn and tone serious. "I won't lie to you, we have the chance to really make a difference for our children. I'm honored to have been chosen, and I'm going to do whatever it takes to make this happen." He held his hat above his head, and with a mighty bellow announced, "Alright everyone! When the history books write of this event hundreds of years from now let them record that Megaton was there! That Megaton did its duty proudly! That Megaton made history!"

The crowd, including Charles himself, whooped loudly, pumping their fists in the air with shouts of affirmation and acclimation. Even tiny Victoria, who couldn't possibly understand the significance of the undertaking they were taking, cheered, probably just because she was excited about the noise.

The collected beings representing this part of the Capital Wasteland, its hopes, its dreams, moved towards the city gate. The Brotherhood was a punctual lot and couldn't be expected to wait around. Delivering vertibirds across all of DC to the various communities wasn't an easy task and the logistics must have given Rothchild a headache. Still, despite the nature of the job, it seems to have been completed well enough, as the band from Megaton excited the city in time to see a trio of vertibirds, two modified for troop transport, touch down in the dust before the de-facto capital of the Capital Wasteland.

The lead 'bird, bristling with weapons and armor, opened up the side hatch and discharged several Brotherhood Paladins, fully armored up in T-51b Power Armor, all painted the same brilliant Brotherhood white, with one notable exception. The lead Paladin, laser rifle slung over his shoulder, was clad in the same white armor, but, down the center of his helmet was a single bold stroke of blood red paint, neatly bisecting the helmet and proudly displaying this Paladin's particular loyalty to the world.

He'd been a former Outcast, before Maxson reunified the splintered group in the DC Wasteland, Charles had been long gone by that point and heard only a little about it. But he'd worked with the Outcasts before, helping them crack into that Anchorage simulation and keeping a few of them alive in the ensuing brawl. Gruff, sure, the Outcasts were no bag of kittens, but compared to the rest of DC's monstrosities he was always happy to see them, or at least stand behind them.

While he didn't really understand the split within the Brotherhood of Steel that led to the two groups forming, Lyons had said something about how their original mission was to acquire tech, not protect the locals. Thus, even after Maxson reunited them all under one banner those who had been Outcasts painted a solitary red stripe down their helmets to show that they had always, at least in their minds, been true to the Codex even when others hadn't.

This particular former Outcast seemed to know Charles, "Well I'll be damned, the Lone Wanderer himself." The Paladin tapped an armored finger against his forehead, "I mean, Maxson said you were still kicking but I still can't believe. And," he looked him up and down, "You look good besides! Which isn't all that common around these parts nowadays."

It took a moment, but the voice is what clued him in, "Protector McGraw?"

"Paladin McGraw now," he corrected without a hint of malice or frustration, "Elder Maxson's a great man, still can't believe he actually convinced me to rejoin the rest of the Brotherhood after what Lyons made it…" He shook his head, unaware or uncaring what the other Brotherhood troops thought of the casual disrespect directed towards the now dead Elder. "He's true to the Codex, Maxson. I can't wait for you to meet him." He waved his hand in a circular motion, "But we'll have plenty of time to chit-chat on the way to Sanctuary Hills, it's a long way, even by 'Birds and I'll welcome the company." He turned to face the remainder of the Megaton lot, "Alright people! Saddle up! We've got places to be! Move it!"

* * *

The cubes of iguana sizzled in the pan, giving off that faint smell of cooking meat that always made Porter Gage hungry, which was wasted on him because he was always hungry. The fire was small, but that suited the trio of raiders just fine, because there wasn't a lot of meat to go with it.

Even the outskirts of Commonwealth territory was a dangerous place to be for a raider, but it was the best option they had. Gage and his two comrades, the sole survivors of a gang that had once taken the name "Battle Rats," but, like so many gangs around them, the Minutemen had rolled in one day and beat them into a pulp. Gage even lost an eye in that fight, but he was lucky to escape with his head.

So they sat in the rubble, cooking what little food they had left and remembering the old days of plunder and glory, when the raider gangs were feared and roamed the Commonwealth, taking what they wanted and answering to no one.

"Man," Sawblades mumbled, licking his lips as he tossed the meat carefully in the cast iron pan, "I'm hungry enough to eat a Brahmin…" One of the cubes slipped from the pan and hit the dirt that coated the floor of the ruined house the raiders were hiding in. Without hesitation, Sawblades snatched it back up and returned it to the pan. Meat was meat, dirty or otherwise.

Gage tapped the barrel of his automatic hand-made rifle wistfully, "Ain't no point in grumbling 'bout what we don't have." He shook his head, running his other hand across the well-maintained warrior's stripe he'd carved his hair into. "We need some kind of plan."

"We need to rebuild that gang." Grogs, the former leader of the band, stated as if that was the only option, "We need to reform the Battle Rats and hit one of those settlements. We'll get enough food and caps to take us to Florida, if we're quick and careful."

"Where are we going to get the men?" Sawblades enquired without looking up from their meager feast, "The gangs around here've been wiped out and the second we grow larger than three guys hiding in a ruin we'll be hit again." He shook his head, expression hidden behind the gasmask but his intent clear, "Goddamn Minutemen…"

"We could fall in with a larger gang," Gage pointed out, "Why rebuild when somebody else has already got a system in place?"

"Like who?" Sawblades interjected, gesturing to the empty, crumbling building around them, "Because I'm open to suggestion." It was admittedly true, there really didn't seem to be anyone still operating.

"I'm not breaking down the Battle Rats," Grogs growled in a tone that begged confrontation, "This gang ruled our stretch of the Commonwealth for months and I'm not letting old Alexander run me outta my town."

Gage shook his head sadly, the arrogance was astounding, "Look at this dump! We've already been run out. Do you want to get killed too? You dumbass…"

Grogs was about to tear into his companion when a sickly sweet voice from the doorway interrupted. "I can perhaps help with this dilemma, gentlemen." Instantly, iguana and arguments were forgotten as Gage aimed his rifle towards the empty doorframe that allowed entrance to their "stronghold."

The figure was tall, thin, dressed in a grey suit, with a simple beard and mustache. At his waist he wore the cruelest looking dagger Gage had ever laid eyes on. Despite the odds being grossly against his favor, the man seemed unbothered. "What the hell'd you want!" Gage bellowed, jabbing his rifle towards the mysterious man, finger hovering dangerously close to the trigger.

"We'll kill you!" Sawblades added, "Don't think we won't!"

The man casually put his hands in the front pockets of his jacket. "By all means, kill me and be done with it." The relaxed tone unnerved Gage to his core, because only trained killers don't flinch at the sight of a gun barrel. "Or, you can let me speak for a few moments and let me tell you how we can all get revenge on the Minutemen and their Brotherhood allies."

Gage wanted to fill the man with lead. Something about him wasn't right, but the veteran raider couldn't put his finger on it. Unfortunately, Grogs spoke next, "We're listening…"

The man smiled.

* * *

 _Alexander Blackwood's Journal_

 _I try not to think so much these days. If I do I can still see my boy, Shaun, laying there dying in the Institute as all he'd built burned down around him, set ablaze by his old man. He helped me, in the end, gave me the code I needed to activate the evacuation message and save countless innocent lives. Yet still, this unrecognizable old man hated me, loathed me, and before I shot him I know he cursed me._

 _I didn't want him burning alive. Danse told me after I'd pulled that trigger it was simple kindness, but I know better. I know that no one but me put a .44 caliber round into the back of my boy's head, good intentions be damned._

 _I need another drink…*The rest of page is smudged and stained beyond legibility.*_

* * *

 **AN: Thank you to everyone reading and following so far. If you're interested more in Charles' life and the desecration of the Krivbeknih read my story "Broken Lookout." Please don't forget to review! Thanks again! :)**


	5. Home

_I always wanted to put my particular talents to good use. I shouldn't want to waste the gifts God gave him after all. Fortunately the world provides opportunity for use…_

* * *

The vertibird touched down on the concrete landing pad with a crunch of metal on gravel. Before the blades had ceased their spinning, Alexander Blackwood leaped out, coattails fluttering in the wind, boots impacting against the frosty ground of late fall. His faithful canine followed, along with Colder and Garvey. Ronnie retaken her place at the Castle, ensuring the bastion of Minutemen control would be ready to respond to any threat that might arise during this pivotal time. Likewise, Hancock had bid a fond farewell to the others and taken the trip to Goodneighbor, preparing those who'd been selected to accompany him to the conference.

Cait had rejoined them at the Castle, happy to be away from Piper's probing questions and the hustle and bustle that came with spending any amount of time at Minutemen HQ. Someone always needed something and she didn't particularly care to be the one delivering items or repairing old generators. She was a fighter, a good one, but that was all, which suited her just fine indeed.

Even as Cait was following the party from the vertibird, Danse was approaching the general, saluting sharply upon seeing his superior officer, "General Blackwood!"

"At ease Colonel," Alexander responded casually, returning the salute with military-grade precision. Slumping his arm against the handle of the sword at his waist, Blackwood leaned back on his bootheels, a slight groan of relief escaped his lips as he stood for the first time in several hours. Danse, for his part, still seemed awkward in his Colonel duster, clearly not used to the coattails and jacket. Yet, despite his need for adjustment to the uniform, he was razor-sharp and ready for action.

"Sir, we've got a bit of a situation here," the synth admitted, seeming embarrassed that anything at all had gone wrong on his watch. However, considering the rather harsh nature of the post-war world, that Sanctuary Hills was still standing and had suffered no apparent damage Alexander felt Danse had done well for a first solo command. "It's got the potential to be urgent," Danse continued, his tone doing its best to hide the newest Colonel's obvious distress regarding this unknown situation.

"Danse, I want to see my son." Alexander stated in a tone that was firm and based on the evidence around him. No one was dead or dying and, if someone was, he'd have already have been informed.

"I understand but…"

"Danse." Alexander clapped the ex-Paladin on the shoulder, squeezing it tightly, "I've had a hell of a few days. Your old boss was…well…difficult." Danse gave a dry laugh by way of response, but said nothing. "I'm going to see my son for a few minutes and then, I swear to you, I'll stand here all night if I have to too ensure everything works out."

He turned to face Preston who'd wisely remained with his general, quietly standing guard with laser musket cradled in his hands, "Colonel Garvey, I want you to head down to New Sanctuary and run an inventory. It turns out we are going to be hosting the event there and we're going to have plenty of guests. If we need tents, food or anything else I want to know about it so we can get it before we're up to our eyeballs in complaining wastelanders." He paused momentarily and then added, "Go find Wally, the old Vault Tech rep, and bring him with you. That ghoul's forgotten more about requisition and supply lines than I'll ever know. Besides, I think he'd like the opportunity to use his old talents again."

"I'll fetch him right away, general," Alexander's XO stated without hesitation. Saluting Garvey, he sent the Colonel on his way into Sanctuary Hills proper to find his associate before the short jaunt to the former Red Rocket station, now the newest addition to Sanctuary.

Danse, for his part, realized he wasn't going to shift the general's mood and so simply stated, "I'll wait for you over at Bob's place. Colder?" He looked towards the sergeant, "You want to come?"

Giving a nod of approval to let the man know it was okay, Alexander stated, "That works for me. I'll be along soon enough." Dogmeat, sensing that the humans were going to splinter into their own groups trotted off towards his doghouse, barking happily at the midday sun, paws crunching against the frost. Colder seemed more than happy to grab a cold one and moved to join the Colonel.

Cait took his arm and the pair walked towards the House of Tomorrow, hand in hand. Sanctuary was beautiful, and there was something about being back within its walls that filled him with an unexplainable amount of comfort. He'd crafted, in some sense, a piece of the old world.

Stopping by one of the three Nuka-Cola vending machines that he'd collected and repaired back in a time he barely remembered, Alexander popped a handful of caps into the newly modified slot and watched the glass bottle of soda drop, ice-cold, into the lower slot.

Across the road the bazaar was bustling, Deacon waving to him with the chopsticks from his noodle bowl. Behind the Railroad operator, Strong towered over the crowd eyes scanning the various booths as if shopping for something only he could fathom.

"But when are you going to get that damn Vim! machine up and running?" Cait asked with a playful jab as her boyfriend popped the cap of the bottle and took a long swig of Nuka.

"Ask Sturges," he responded with a chuckle, "He did most of the work on the other ones. I'm more of a grease monkey than real mechanic."

"Bullshit." She stated with an audible chuckle, I saw you fix plenty more robots than anyone else. If you can get a Mr. Gutsy running again you can fix a drink dispenser."

Taking another long pull from the frosty bottle, Alexander laughed, "I suppose I just gotta find the time. Once I get that treaty signed and the various caravans set up I'll see what I can do." The pair continued down the road, the general stopping to scratch Yogi under his chin. The massive grey Yao-guai had taken up his favorite spot, lying with his back against the large slab of granite Alexander had abandoned alongside his sheet metal church when he realized he didn't need it and couldn't be bothered to move the stone. The slab gathered plenty of heat from the sun and the mutated bear was always happiest taking advantage of it.

After saying hello to his most unusual pet, the man walked through the restored picket fence around his home. The garden gnomes and lawn flamingos stood tall and proud, keeping watch over grass kept short and a welcome mat that still displayed a few of the original letters despite advanced age and use.

Pushing the door aside he entered into the living room, pulling off his mud-encrusted boots and hanging sword and pistol beside the entrance. Curling and uncurling his sock covered feet with a sigh, Alexander looked around to see any signs of change. Smokey, his cat, happily purred from his position curled up on his particularly favorite couch cushion, yawning dramatically as his way of greeting the arrival of his master. Shaun wasn't in the living room listening to the radio or playing with the old robot models his dad collected out on the road. He wouldn't have been in the old bedroom, which Alexander kept locked, and he wouldn't have been in the old laundry room, which he'd remodeled to contain his most important equipment, the stuff he didn't trust out in his garage despite the relatively secure nature of his capital city. He could always get a new set of exercise equipment but he couldn't retrieve his old military issued flag or his General's uniform.

Cait smiled, looking around the empty room with clear intent. "I'm going to take a soak in the tub." She kissed the side of his head, her lips brushing against the scruff he'd allowed to grow over the past few days. Before walking off she stated slyly, "Come join me when you're ready."

Removing his tricorn as she walked away, Alexander made his way to the laundry room, smiling wistfully at the thought of his partner's seductive intent. Still, he could spend his time wisely. Had to, because whatever Danse felt was worth his time would certainly occupy a good portion of it, and then he'd have storerooms to deal with and sleeping quarters to arrange for dozens of visiting dignitaries. Factoring in ghouls, Vault-dwellers, Brotherhood, farmers and disguised Railroad agents would further complicate the matters. Everyone had their own agenda, and ultimately, everyone wanted something.

The former laundry room was, even more so than his garage, bedroom or kitchen, a place all his own, a place of peace and stability. Finishing off his bottle of cola and pitching it into the nearest garbage can, he entered that small room. The blank mannequin that greeted him took up most of the back wall, the rest occupied by the tattered American flag that he'd been gifted upon his honorable discharge from Uncle Sam's old core. As he removed the gloves, armor pieces and overcoat of his uniform and stacked them in their appropriate places on the mannequin he glanced about the room at his various knickknacks.

There was his old baseball glove and ball, tattered but full of happy memories. The old black and white photo of his grandfather heading out to war, framed and undamaged, a pair of pint glasses he purchased from his tour of the Gwinett Brewery when he and Nora visited. The other few objects he'd salvaged from his old life that had taken up such prominence in the new.

After putting the uniform in its place and dressing in a pair of old jeans and plain white t-shirt, he made his way over to the bedroom he'd built for the young synth he'd taken as his own. The door was closed, but the sounds of rustling pages could be heard, and the whispering of a young child reading aloud.

A smile at the sound of his son's voice filled his face before Alexander knocked once. "Who is it?" Shaun shouted, his tone bordering on annoyance.

"Dad." It was a solitary word, spoken at a normal tone, and yet it garnered a response so great that it never ceased to amaze him. The door flew open and the small boy with a mop of brown hair barreled into his father, nearly knocking him over.

"Dad! Dad! Dad!" He babbled on excitedly, "How is the Castle? How was the blimp? What did you talk about? Did you bring anything back? I took apart a toaster and used the springs to repair an old watch!"

"Slow down," his father told Shaun with an amused little smile, sitting down on his son's bed with his eldest child snuggling up against him. "So, the Castle is fine, Ronnie says hi." He ruffled his son's hair, "Crops are coming in well and the leaves are changing all around us. Well, the leaves that are left anyways." He glanced out the plate glass window towards the grove of lemon trees he'd brought back from Covenant and transplanted within Sanctuary. Already they'd been almost entirely harvested, but their leaves were turning a brilliant crimson.

"The Castle is still strong, the walls thick and repairs going as planned. I can't wait to take you to see it again at some point." Shaun nodded, eyes grave, he understood well enough the responsibility that came with the Castle, and he'd been there to see that grandeur for himself.

"And the blimp?" Shaun really did love that blimp and honestly it was hard to blame him. There was something about the Predwyn that awed Alexander every time he set foot aboard it. The Brotherhood of Steel, for all its faults, had done some truly remarkable things.

"The Predwyn? She's flying just fine." Shaun seemed particularly happy with that particular bit of information. "Did you think I'd get you something?" He had, as a matter of fact, but wanted to see if Shaun trusted him.

"Is it a hotplate?" The boy was clever, "I'd hoped you'd remembered. If I want to make another scope, and I do want to make another scope, I need a hotplate."

Pulling the requested kitchen object from his small satchel he kept on his waist, Alexander passed it to his wide-eyed son, "I always remember what you ask for buddy." He ruffled his son's hair and pulled him close. The moment, short though it was, rejuvenated the general more than any steak or stimpak could have.

"I love you dad." Shaun's words ran deeply through Alexander's soul, filling him with unspeakable joy and pride. The boy seemed almost embarrassed as he said, "Do you mind if I go into the tool shed and take it apart? I've really wanted to try something new with my design…"

Alexander chuckled, "Sure kid, have fun. I'll see you at dinner." Shaun scampered off happily, the hot plate clutched tightly in both hands like some precious pre-war treasure. The general sat on his son's bed, smiling as his boy departed the House of Tomorrow for his little work station across the street. After awhile, Blackwood got up and made his way towards the bathroom.

Cait, soaking in the tub, her naked body proudly on display, smiled wickedly towards her man as he made his prescience known. "So," she asked seductively, "You decided ta join me after all? I'm flattered."

Rather than come up with a significantly witty retort, Alexander pulled his clothes off and hopped in the tub after her. Unfortunately for Danse and Colder, the general didn't leave that tub for a very long time.

* * *

"So I was staring down the Super Mutants, a whole pack of them, my laser rifle nearly empty," Danse recalled, holding the cup of beer in one hand. The general had been, unsurprisingly, reluctant to meet up with his commanders and thus the former Paladin figured a beer or two wouldn't hurt, or if, considering the nature of his synthetic body, it could even affect him at all. Consider that Alexander still hadn't arrived, Danse, despite his initial nervousness about taking those drinks, determined he'd made the correct decision. Besides, Colder had some war stories of his own.

"Yeah? Then what?" The blonde man knocked back his glass of rum, waving Bob the Protectron over for more. Bob's place was a dingy shack, the ceiling containing a stale cloud of tobacco smoke, and out of tune jukebox and the general dinginess of voices meeting friends and swapping old stories.

"So, I'm thinking this could be my last moment," Danse continued, spreading his arms out wide dramatically, adding a little flourish to his tale, "And honestly, all that's going through my mind that second is, I really wish someone had put a slot in this Power Armor to pee because I really have to go!"

Colder broke out laughing, pounding his fist against the table as he chuckled. "Back with the merc group I used to run with I wore their heaviest armor, not Power Armor mind you but the principle was the same. Man, whoever designed those things didn't really have long combat encounters in mind…"

Danse took another long swig of his beer as Bob arrived with a refill for Sergeant Colder. "Would you like another, Colonel Danse?" Bob asked in the typical monotone pauses of a protectron.

"Just lemonade please," the synth responded, tasting the aftereffects of his beer, "I need to remain focused." Even as the bartender chunkily put the metallic tube containing the sugary liquid down on the rickety table before him, Danse asked, "Colder, what company were you with again? I don't think you've mentioned it?"

 _I know far too little about you and I don't like unknowns._

Duke took up the cup he'd been drinking from and had another swing of his nice cold Gwinnit stout. "Small company out of DC, "Sons of America," garish I know, but someone had to put the armor on and a boot down the various holes of the Muties."

Danse tipped his lemonade, "I'll drink to that." It was sweet and so pleasantly cold. For a moment, the synth thanked any god that would listen that he'd been given taste buds. "Is the comapny still active…or?"

Duke shook his head, gazing down at the cup of beer before him, reflection lost in the dark swirl of the stout. "Nope. Some lucky bastard wiped us out to a man. I was lucky enough to escape the fire but…I doubt anyone else made it." He drained the glass in one rapid motion. "Figured there wasn't any purpose in staying in DC any more so I went south, just to see what was there." He gestured around at the building they occupied, shabby though it was. "I found civilization. Perhaps not as it was, but with the potential to be the world again, so, naturally, I wanted to protect it. As you've seen, I'm not unhandy with a plasma rifle." Again, Danse nodded, that was something he'd seen himself during a small skirmish with some feral ghouls.

He was about to probe Duke further about the "Sons of America" when the general finally made his prescience known. He'd changed out of his uniform back into his civvies, beard closely cut and shaved, whistling a tune with a spring in his step and his hair was damp.

Still, even if Alexander had made a momentary breach of protocol, Danse respected the chain of authority. Standing to attention, somewhat faster than Duke Colder, he snapped the appropriate salute. "General."

"I'm off duty Danse," Alexander responded with a wave of his hands, "Just use my name." He could be frustrating cavalier about military chain of command. Yet, as casual as he was, Alexander Blackwood had built the Minutemen up into a fighting force that could rival any that remained in America's ashes, and had even taken down the Institute. No matter how much it may have appeared that Alexander wasn't up to the task, or didn't take his role seriously, that couldn't have been further from the truth. Danse knew his general carried more weight on his shoulders than any among them. Even Maxson had his faith in the will of the Codex to guide him. Alexander had faith as well, faith in some pre-war God and a religion he called "Catholicism," but Danse couldn't figure out the heads or tails of it and really couldn't be bothered too. What he did know was that his general's faith wasn't as rigid as the Codex, wasn't as pre-determined. He had to figure it out on his own, determine the right morality for the new America.

Danse didn't know about God, but he knew Alexander, and that was enough for him.

"Yes…Alexander," the synth began slowly, still struggling with the casual nature his general preferred, "We've got a bit of a problem."

"Well, what's the nature of this problem?" The general removed a cigarette from the pocket of his jeans, lit it up and took a long pull of the sweet-smelling smoke.

"It's better if I show you."

"Well then," Alexander gestured towards the door, trail of smoking following his hand as he did so, "Lead on, Danse."

* * *

Zimmer folded his papery hands, sitting in the foldout chair with a scowl. The tent around him flapped in the wind, a chill whistling through his old bones. It wasn't the welcome he'd expected, or wanted. Gone were the white hallways, gone were the spotless tables and synthetic servants, the fresh food, the security force, all of it, just vanished.

"You lost everything." His words were sharp, bitter, held with a razor's edge. This tent, and the few battered synths remaining were nothing but the faintest shadow of the greatness that the Institute had been. X6-88, for his part, said nothing, the Courser merely standing behind the central table with his hands folded behind his back. Two other Coursers, identifications Zimmer had yet to learn, flanked him. Aside from Harkness, who'd traded in his less descriptive wasteland garb for his Courser's uniform , there seemed to be no other surviving Coursers among all the synths left, a pity.

The man who appeared in command of these pitiful remnants, Dr Justin Ayo, Zimmer's subordinate, placed his hands, palm-down, upon the crudely built wooden table the object rested upon. "We didn't lose everything." It was half-hearted at best.

"Really?" Zimmer's sarcasm was obvious. "Look around you Doctor Ayo! You call this something?" His voice was rising as he rose from his chair, "You lost the Institute! You lost the technology, army, weapons, everything! Where are the scientists? Where are the soldiers?" He picked up a small box of Blamco Mac and Cheese, clearly scavenged from some ruin and shoved the box in Ayo's face, "Are they hidden in this? Is that were my Retention Bureau has gotten off to?" As if the tone wasn't enough, Zimmer actually looked underneath the box, as if the missing Bureau in its entirety would be beneath the small slab of dirty cardboard.

"When the self-destruct alarm went off we were panicked," Ayo's voice was hollow, robotic. "The Minutemen were storming throughout the facility, our guards falling around us. Some managed to escape with their hands full of salvaged technologies, others with weapons, holodisks, even food. In fact, most non-combat personally managed to escape before the facility exploded, though not all were quite so lucky. Poor Doctor Holdren…"

"Well?" Zimmer growled, stomping around the tent with all the subtlety of a Super Mutant Overlord, "Where the hell'd the survivors go? Because I don't see most of the staff standing outside the tent awaiting my orders!" Indeed, there was likely less than a hundred in the small makeshift camp, hidden on the border of old Commonwealth territory, a combination of synth soldiers and staff, plus human scientists and other employees, but aside from Ayo, and X6-88, who seemed to have assumed something of a leadership role, there was no remaining senior staff.

"Many left as soon as the Institute atomized." Ayo leaned back, rubbing his temples with thumbs that were calloused and dirty, "Traitors, cowards and the like who saw an opportunity to live among the dirt of the Wasteland and wanted it, for reasons beyond what I can fathom." He was clearly disgusted, shaking his head at those too weak or too scared to carry out the work needed. "Some slipped away later, discouraged, or tired. I didn't have the resources remaining to keep them with us. Some were killed off by raiders or mutants until I alone remained in command."

"And the tech?"

"We've still got most of what we salvaged, but it's useless without some base of operations. If we're going to rebuild the Institute we need to find a permanent location to work. This camp moves as needed to avoid Minutemen or Brotherhood attacks, or even the Railroad operatives still active." He shook his head, "Those blasted zealots are the worst of the lot."

"Noted." Zimmer was unimpressed. "You've managed to maintain some basic logic skills." He made his way over towards the far left wall of the tent, the canvas hidden behind a crudely drawn map of the Commonwealth on a large hunk of cardboard. The sight of such primitive means of displaying information when Zimmer had worked with holograms disgusted him. "The Minutemen have shifted into a massive force, according to what you've told me, how are we going to break them apart enough to build a permanent base of operations strong enough to resist all attacks?"

Ayo actually smiled, "While you were gone, we've made contact with a few others forces who've got a lot invested in seeing this new power crumble from within. We have developed a plan that's going to bring the Minutemen to their knees, and destroy the remains afterward." The doctor held his nose, "As loathed as I am to deal with such unsavory folk, we can afford to spend their lives cheaper than our own. One of our surviving janitors is worth more than a hundred of these vagabonds." He rapped his knuckles against the aluminum cylinder that occupied most of the table, the soft hum and blue glow unmistakable in its intent. "This little piece of technology is a cornerstone of our plan. Trust me, Dr Zimmer, you're going to see the world change again, very soon."

"I hope so," the doctor growled, his wrinkled face narrowing, "If mankind is to survive, it needs us. This blight, these Minutemen, must be removed, for the sake of us all."

* * *

Despite the overwhelming noise of the vertibird's propellers and the wind whipping through the open doors, McGraw refused to have them closed. The paladin loved the wind, loved the thrill of traveling by vertibird and loved the heights. Charles wasn't so crazy about it, but a vertibird had carried him out of hell once, and, if remaining there and leaving with that vehicle were his only choice, he'd gladly take the 'bird.

While Charles wanted to ride with Paladin McGraw in the command 'bird, and gather some much needed information of the Commonwealth, he certainly wasn't going to allow his young children to run amuck on an aerial vehicle without proper protection. So Riley, who wanted to spend time with her old squad anyways, took them aboard one of the transport model vertibirds where they were secured against falling overboard.

Fawkes had gone with them, along with Jericho, whose flight sickness was at least somewhat abated by strong drink and enclosed walls. Faithful Charon, however, refused to leave Charles' side, and so was sitting, awake but silent, besides his friend and employer, a statue of flesh and blood.

Aside from that duo, Lucas Simms, mayor of Megaton, held a seat, Uncle Roe, leader of Canterbury Commons and the town's head merchant also held one, Winthrop, handyman and defacto representative of Underworld also held one. As the vertibirds were headed towards Rivet City, none of those who'd be representing that city were yet present. The Pitt was proving difficult, as its far off location and the general lack of trust held by its inhabitants meant they refused to take and communication from the Brotherhood. Discussions would take place during the conference as to what was to be done with the Pitt, but that was a bridge for a later time.

Finally and perhaps most amusingly, was Dave, president of the Republic of Dave and something of an oddity compared to the others. Typically, the man inside the small fenced-in compound wouldn't be taken seriously; however, Dave had placed himself in a critical location along the major routes and stumbled across a truly monstrous pile of caps while exploring the wasteland that made him a truly pivotal trading outpost. Still, Dave, and his "republic" was more considered an oddity than a legitimate city-state.

"So McGraw," Charles shouted, elevating his voice enough to be heard above the screaming of the propellers and whistling winds. "What exactly has been going on with the Brotherhood these days?"

"You haven't been following the accounts trickling up from the Commonwealth?" The Paladin seemed surprised, "Most of my brothers have been down there fighting the Enclave's nerdy little brother."

"The Institute," Winthrop rumbled, nodding his head solemnly, "There was an Institute of technology in Boston before the war. Do you think it was connected?" The mechanic rubbed the last of the grease from his skinless hands, doing his best to appear as clean as he could for such an important meeting.

"Surprised you know the name," McGraw stated with just a hint of sarcasm, doing his best not to show how superior he saw himself when compared to the ghoul. While his Power Armor did help hide those sneers, Winthrop could no doubt feel them regardless. Still, the ghoul didn't both showing his discomfort. "Yeah, we fought those bastards all throughout the Commonwealth, worked with some local militia called the Minutemen, who grew into a massive fighting force while were there. Their top general, some guy named Blackwood, is basically their president and he's got some great plan to restore the country." McGraw shrugged a difficult gesture to pull off effectively in Power Armor. "Elder Maxson seems to think this guy is the real deal, and he's facilitating this meeting where rebuilding stability in the ruins of America can hopefully begin."

"I'm here to ensure the sovereign nation of the Republic of Dave is respected and ratified on these maps," Dave announced boldly as if anyone gave one lick about what he thought, "The Republic of Dave will not fall beneath the coward's weapon of diplomacy, nor to the guns of the Wasteland. After these discussions are complete, the God-given right of our Republic to exist will be upheld, and our sovereign borders upheld."

 _Good luck with that._

Pointedly ignoring the intrusion from Dave, Charles asked, "What's this big thing that's got you so excited?" He leaned back in his chair, letting the soft leather of the Vertibird's seat carry him into comfort, "That you told us you wanted to discuss?"

McGraw actually leaned forward in his seat, facing those who'd been given the responsibility of representing their communities. "There's rumblings throughout the Brotherhood of Steel that could shake up everything, and right before these meetings? It's no coincidence. Personally, I didn't believe until I saw her with my own eyes."

"Who?" Lucas asked, shifting about nervously in his seat, "Who's so important?"

McGraw's voice was just above a whisper, filtering out through the helmet's speaker. "Are you familiar with Sentinel Sarah Lyons?"

Charles had, and wasn't exactly happy with having her memory dragged up. "She was the only daughter of Owen Lyons, Elder of the Brotherhood and the leader of his finest warriors, the Lyons Pride. Unrivalled on the battlefield, beautiful in appearance and character, ferociously loyal, rough but kind, a beacon of hope, even in a world of darkness…"

He could feel the heads in the 'bird shift towards him, glancing towards his outburst. McGraw didn't flinch, gesturing towards the Lone Wanderer, "Yeah, I read your file, I saw the records. You once were a member of the Lyons Pride, helped drive the Enclave out of Project Purity and destroy them once and for all." There wasn't a comment among all those present. Nobody in the vertibird but Charon, and perhaps Simms suspected, that Charles had been, for some time at least, a member of the Brotherhood of Steel. "When Old Lyons died and Sarah shortly afterwards, that was it for you." It was a phrase that, Charles had no doubt McGraw would have sneered anyone but him. McGraw, after all, still somewhat owed the Lone Wanderer for saving his hide back in the Anchorage simulation and furthermore understood that no wastelander could ever truly understand the Codex, it was beyond them, according to McGraw anyway.

"Sarah's body was never recovered," Charles spoke robotically, more for the sake of those listening than for McGraw. "The New Elder killed in battle along with her entire squad, fighting an unknown force."

"If the body was never recovered how'd you know she'd been killed?" Uncle Roe asked, logically enough.

"We recovered her laser rifle and helmet," Charles stated solemnly, "I personally searched the area for a week looking for any trace of her. We all know that bodies don't always last in the DC Wasteland and considering Sarah would rather part with her head than that weapon I knew, in my gut, she didn't make it." He looked towards the floor, his relationship with Sarah had been…complicated and he didn't feel like drudging it back up again.

"Well you were wrong."

That led to a reaction. "What the hell do you mean by that?" Charles roared at the paladin, moving to rise from his seat, but Charon's firm grip held him down, "I searched everywhere, I lead the effort myself!"  
McGraw held up his hands in a gesture of peace, "I'm not blaming you, I'm not saying your efforts were lackluster or anything, don't worry. I'm saying she's not dead."

"What proof would you offer of this supposed miracle?" Dave asked skeptically, and for once Charles found himself actually agreeing with the "President."

"Because I saw her with my own eyes, and because she's riding in the 'bird next to us." That was a claim that McGraw wouldn't dare fabricate and so Charles sat silently. "Kodiak and his boys found her while out searching for some gizmo Head Scribe Rothchild wanted. She was all plugged up in a tube or something, really sci-fi stuff, in a secret room in a basement a good dozen klicks from the battle site. I haven't spoken with her yet but Rothchild assures me that it's Sarah Lyons and that she's still herself, both mentally and physically. Who's to say she's not. But one thing I do know, Elder Maxson wants to see her himself and he wants to see her now, so she's coming along for the ride."

 _I can't believe it, Sarah, alive? But who would have done it? Why? How could I have missed her? I should have known…_

He leaned back in his chair, attempting, to the best of his ability, regulate his breathing and somehow stare through the hull of the adjacent vertibird. If Sarah Lyons really was alive it would change everything. Charles was a man of habit, always had been, Vault life lended itself well towards habit forming and routine. To think that everything was about to be turned upside down, no matter how pleased he was that Sarah may have survived after all, was oddly nerve-wracking.

Little did Charles know just how much the world would change in those next few days.

* * *

 _Alexander Blackwood's Journal_

 _I remember being deployed, fighting those red commie bastards so far away from home, far from everything I loved. But I kept going because it meant something to me, because what I was doing had to be done, because if I didn't fight the Chinese who would have?_

 _I don't know everything, hell, I don't pretend to know half of a tenth of everything, I don't know why I managed to survive that war when so many others didn't. I don't know why I alone managed to escape 111 and the nuclear hellfire that came before. But what I do know is this. I've been put here for a reason, and really given a chance to make a difference in this messed-up ruin I once called home. I won't give up and I won't stop fighting to make the America I knew rise again, not while there's still breath in my body. It may end up looking slightly different, it may even end up as a few allied nations rather than one glorious beacon of liberty, but it will be undoubtedly, unmistakably, America._

 _Or I'll die trying._

* * *

 **AN: Thanks for those of you who read and reviewed! It was much appreciated. :) Until my next segment thank you for reading.  
**


	6. Delicate Negotiations

_I was never the strongest or the biggest. I never towered over anyone. I'd never win an arm-wrestling match but I had something they didn't. Cleverness. I was oh so clever…_

* * *

The hum of the generator echoed throughout the metal halls of Vault 66, the old lights flickering as they returned from the dead. Massive cobwebs shook as the ancient ventilation systems came to life, blowing clouds of dust throughout the vault. Obadiah Blackhall was very pleased with what he saw. "An old Vault. Ingenious." He knelt and ran his finger along the dusty floor, examining the contents with a mild interest. "And you say it was unfinished?"

Pickman, the Artist, the perfect killer, gave his simple smile. "But of course." He gestured around the atrium where the men stood, alone in a tomb of steel and concrete. "Vault 66 was unfinished when I stumbled across it, the final parts not yet arriving and, considering the unique design of this facility, that posed a problem."

The Killer tilted his masked head, glancing about the Vault. "I figured it would have been bigger…" He scampered off down a hallway, muttering about how, "It was promised to be bigger," and glancing about at every open panel and floor tile.

"How'd you come across this place?" Littlehorn asked with something resembling suspicion, "I've got some pretty good contacts and they didn't find it."

"Salem is…a special place, at least, it is to me." Pickman touched both hands above his heart, smiling that dastardly smile of his. "There's one old man too stubborn to leave this place but, beyond him no one. The Minutemen avoid it, even the raiders steer clear. Superstition mostly."

"Are we sure that's all it is?" The Doctor asked, moving about the atrium with his eyes fixed on his Pip-boy. "There is something here…"

"Ug-qualtoth's will is in this place," Blackhall announced, seeming confident in the certainty of that fact. "He willed Pickman to find it, and so it was found."

The location of Vault 66 was an interesting one. While, like most vaults, it was underground with only one connection to the surface, via a tunnel carefully hidden inside an old carport, the rest of 66 was half underwater, appearing as little more than a large rock from a casual above surface glance. This half-aquatic nature helped keep it hidden but its unfinished nature held unique risks. If the sea wall collapsed, for example, the vault would flood, but Vault-Tec wasn't exactly known for caring about the survival rate of those inside their products.

"This will serve nicely as a base for our operations…" Littlehorn admitted, stroking his weathered chin with a papery hand. "I'll bring in some troops to fortify the place while the remainders are in the field…" He turned towards Pickman, "And the old man?"

"Taken care of." The Artist seemed almost sad about it, "He was more or less an innocent, by Wasteland standards, but it needed doing. Our motley collection of raiders should be arriving shortly."

"Raiders?" The Doctor didn't seem thrilled with that tidbit, "Well, I suppose it must be done."

"Raiders, Triggermen, Trappers from the Island, several different gangs in all, even some Super Mutants, separated from their main pack." The killer took a step forward, "I've been busy with recruitment these few weeks and have built a sizable force. Coupled with Littlehorn's mercenary army and the Institute remnants, we'll have enough warm bodies for the first stage of our plans."

"And the true purpose of this vault?" Blackhall asked, glancing up towards the flickering lights buried in the ceiling, "More for the sake of my own curiosity."

"Records suggest it was intended by Vault-Tec to test the possibility of uncovering hidden abilities within the human genome. ESP, telepathy, telekinesis ect. It was going to be filled with subjects who'd demonstrated some affinity for some of those things. Obviously, Salem was chosen as the location for this vault to no doubt satisfy some darker sense of humor that heads of Vault-Tec had."

The Doctor chuckled, "So tell me then, do you have the control of all the raider gangs? As many as possible considering the nature of the United Commonwealth."

"All the major players, save one." Pickman mused, "But the Gunners should be getting back to me shortly…"

* * *

Lieutenant Tucker, of the Gunners mercenary crew had seen some shit. He'd been through hell and back, battling Talon Company mercs, Super Mutants, even tangoed with a Brotherhood of Steel Paladin once and survived. And yet he'd never been more nervous in all his adult life as he was in that moment.

The cigar in his mouth was chewed to a stump, the tip barely flickering with any semblance of life. His eyes were hidden behind his shades, thankfully enough, as it would provide him with some level of ability to hide his nervousness. He was backed up by Molly, of course, his faithful XO who'd never let him down. She was a short and feisty as ever, face still hidden behind her stars and stripes bandana, spiky crimson hair protruding from beneath her helmet as she nervously rapped her fingers against the butt of her MP-40. Behind them sat their vertibird, "Vera" a faithful mount that had carried the pair to Point Lookout and back, with passengers in tow. Its minigun was pointed towards the approaching group, yet no one had mounted it. Tucker was backed by a few other Gunners who shared his position. They were mercenaries, not murders, and some kind of agreement could be reached.

Yet Carson didn't see it that way. The other Gunner stomped towards Tucker, a larger force of soldiers at his back. He was a big man, more akin to Super Mutant than human, with broad shoulders and rippling biceps that came from the handling of his gatling laser, a weapon heavy enough to cripple a lesser man. His bomber jacket strained to contain his bulk and his combat fatigues were stretched almost to the breaking point. His face was an ugly mass of scars and tattoos, with a crude black beard, though his head was shaved completely bald.

While Carson may not have been carrying his trademarked gatling laser he was armed, the sawed-off shotgun at his waist clearly visible and a belted security baton within easy reach suggested the man wasn't afraid of violence. His men were packing laser rifles, automatic weapons and a variety of knives, swords, crude clubs and certainly outnumbered his supporters more than he cared to admit.

Taking his switchblade from his pocket, Tucker shaved off the end of his cigar and let a fresh puff of tobacco calm his nerve. Unlatching the guard on his 10 millimeter pistol, Tucker left it in his holster, but stood ready. "I don't like the look of this LT," Benji, the Gunner standing beside him mumbled, adjusting his cap ever so slightly and double-checking the clip in his G3 assault rifle. "Looks like Carson's got them all riled up and looking for blood…"

"Well, let's see that it doesn't come to that." Tucker muttered taking a step forward, snapping the switchblade closed. "Carson! You son of a bitch! Come to talk?" His arms were held wide in a gesture of peace, but those few soldiers loyal to him appeared anything but peaceful.

"That depends," Carson rumbled his tone neutral but face deadly serious, "Are you willing to listen to me and stop this goddamn foolishness?" The men behind Carson snarled and gestured with their guns but said nothing.

"Look Carson, just take one goddamn look around you!" Tucker shouted pointing at the patch of grassy ground and the clump of shriveled trees, "We could be all that's left of the Gunners in Boston. We've got no way to get back to High Command; we've got no bases, no food, no supplies and no local commanders! With Gunner Plaza down and every ranking officer dead, it's time to come to the table and make peace with the Minutemen."

"Make peace?" Carson spat on the ground, "Make peace? We've been slaughtered! It's time we got some payback!"

"Since when are we raiders for God's sake?" Tucker snapped back, "We aren't a bunch of chemed out junkies driven by instincts! We're Gunners, mercenaries! If the caps are good, we deal. And not getting incinerated is a good deal! We can always get revenge later." Some of the Gunners on his side nodded and even one or two of Carson's seemed to express some approval of that point. "You remember the boys down in Hangman's Alley? Old bandit gang? They made a deal with Blackwood and they're still kicking! So let's swallow our pride and deal!"

"When'd you lose your balls Tucker?" The words hung in the air, taunting the Gunner and all those listening with their simple potency. "You want to suck up to Blackwood? After what he's done to our reputation?"

"Well we can't take the entire Goddamn Minutemen army, not to mention the Brotherhood sons of bitches he's allied with even if both our bands joined forces."

"Ah, but Tucker," Carson smiled, "That's the beauty of it, we don't have to take them on ourselves." The bigger man gave a predatory smile that made Tucker extra glad for his dark sunglasses.

"You're talking crazy." There was no other explanation. "No one's left who could even bloody the general's nose. No gang's got any real firepower."

"I met a man in a suit, said he's bringing together all the remains of all the gangs in the Commonwealth for one big attack on the Minutemen while they're meeting with the shits from up north. We're going to kill everyone we find and smash everything we see. Hopefully we'll do enough damage to destroy both the Minutemen and the Brotherhood forever, even if we don't, we'll buy time to regroup and reclaim our places as the kings of this dumpster."

"No way." Tucker spat the stump of his cigar out of his mouth before withdrawing a fresh one and lighting it up. For a moment, Benji winced; afraid the action would be mistaken for drawing a weapon. But fortunately Carson didn't take offense to Tucker's chainsmoking. "There's no way in hell that you've got enough guys or firepower to mount this kind of assault. You'd need tech we don't have…"

"He knows the Institute."

"You can't bullshit me…"

"Well, not the Institute exactly, but the remains of it. This contact of mine has connections to a few surviving Institute scientists. These guys have weapons, synth soldiers and the technology to make up the difference and they're hungry for blood. With their help, plus some other mercs coming in from DC, we've got more than enough firepower to cripple the Minutemen and the Brotherhood, if not permanently than certainly long enough to get some base set up. We'll crawl our way back to the top."

Tucker couldn't honestly believe what he was hearing. "No way." The words hung heavy in the air, "No goddamn way." He looked past Carson at the Gunners who'd taken up his cause, "I can't believe you're even thinking about working with those mad bastards! They're half the reason for all this shit!"

"Look around you!" Carson snapped, gesturing to the ragtag group of men and women and throwing Tucker's earlier jab back in his face, "We used to own the Commonwealth, our territory was untouched. The GNR HQ was a fortress, our bases the envy of raider and survivor alike. We owned Quincy and crushed the Commonwealth Minutemen beneath our boots! But Blackwood shattered us, drove us out! We could be the only Gunners left in the Commonwealth, you said it yourself!" He gazed towards the Lieutenant, eyes burning with hatred. "If we have even one chance to make them pay for what they've done to us, we take it. We owe the dead that much."

The only sound was the whistling wind, the heavy silence following Carson's impassioned plea. Several Gunners on Tucker's side actually shifted from side to side, face's clearly conflicted as they pondered what exactly had been said. Tucker actually took his sunglasses off and stared Carson dead in the eye. "No." The word hung low. "I get vengeance, I really do, but there's no way in hell I'm working alongside the Institute. Those guys…what they did…No. I mean I'll kill anyone for caps but what those men did actually scares me." Placing the sunglasses back over his eyes, the Lieutenant crossed his arms defiantly. "If you want to battle the inevitable alongside the devil go right ahead. I'll do what I can to actually stave off destruction for our boys."

Carson shook his head, clicking his tongue sadly, "That's a real goddamn shame, it really is." He turned as if walking away, but he wasn't, and everything afterward happened in a blur.

The bigger Gunner's hand moved like lightning, snatching his security baton from his waist and swinging upward, extending the baton as he did so. The blunted tip struck Tucker in the face, snapping his head backward in a flash of pain, his sunglasses shattering from the force of the blow. Even as he staggered backward Carson hit him again, striking the side of his head with the baton. The blow broke Tucker's jaw, shattering teeth and bone, driving him to the ground. Carson had the sawed-off in his spare hand somehow, blasting Benji at point-blank range with both barrels, blood and bone raining down on Tucker from the now carcass of his unfortunate friend.

Carson's followers were prepared for bloodshed, opening fire without hesitation. Tucker saw a few of his boys cut down in moments, collapsing in pools of blood and ash. Molly was screaming, spraying bullets from her submachine gun towards the other Gunners. At least one of Carson's boys went down bleeding and screaming. Another moved towards Tucker's limp form, hatchet in hand to finish the job. Carson stepped over the limp form of his fallen enemy, picking up Benji's assault rifle.

Tucker's hands were shaking, his vision blurry from the injury yet he managed to pull his ten millimeter from its holster. The other Gunner saw that Tucker was still moving and dashed towards the man. However, even in his weakened state the Gunner wasn't going down that easy and fired towards his would-be-killer. Several of the bullets struck the attacker, dropping him in a tangle of limbs and blood. Even as Tucker did his best to reload, a second one of Carson's followers, armed with a 10 millimeter submachine gun, mowed down one of his last surviving allies. Tucker aimed, squinting with his one good eye and put a bullet in the other merc's head.

Even as Carson's man was falling, dead from the solitary round, Carson was pouring rifle fire on those pathetic few still standing. Molly was hit, falling in a scream of pain, clutching her shoulder with both hands. Tucker fired towards Carson, his pistol missing wildly as the blood poured down his eyes and the pain in his shattered jaw intensified. Carson, finally noting the survival of his adversary, turned, aiming his assault rifle towards the fallen Tucker.

Yet once again the Lieutenant wasn't going down without a fight. Despite the pain, despite the shaking hands and the sheer agony he managed to aim and fire again. Unlike the previous shot, he didn't manage the kill, but it was close. The bullet tore through Carson's ear, ripping it from his body. Even as the big Gunner roared with pain, firing his rifle Tucker smiled.

 _At least I gave that big bastard something to remember me by…_

* * *

Maxson looked away from Kells, hands folded behind his back, gazing out the massive windows of the Prydwen. "Are you sure it's her?" The words were pointedly neutral, denying the variety of emotions rolling about in his heart. "We've been duped before…this could be another synth."

Kells paused, as if dreading what Maxson's response might be to the answer. Yet Kells was, if anything, a consummate professional and so spoke without a dip in tone, "It seems so, Elder. Head Scribe Rothchild himself personally ran the tests. He was using ever scrap of information we have about synths, any piece we recovered from the Institute. She passed every test with flying colors. While, admittedly, it's theoretically impossible to determine beyond a shadow of a doubt whether or not Sarah Lyons is a synth, it's unlikely to the point of certainty. She certainly seems legitimate." He paused awaiting a response from the Elder.

Maxson sighed deeply, hands folding and unfolding behind his back. "This…complicates things."

"Indeed sir." It was the largest understatement of the day.

"Sarah will want to know what's transpired since she disappeared, and what the current state of affairs is. She's probably going to want to become Elder again…"

"That can't happen…" Kells stated far more certainly than reality would suggest. "You've been chosen fairly in accordance with the Codex…"

"Sarah has supporters, even now. They'd want a revote and we cannot allow that at this time. These negotiations are too delicate, too important. Whatever we may think of Sarah we cannot allow chinks to appear in the Brotherhood of Steel. Not now." The words hurt, they hurt more than he expected, but the truth was the truth.

"I wouldn't assume anything, sir," Kells admitted without opinion, playing the dutiful captain, "If you believe we need to contain this, we'll contain it."

"Sarah was the best of us," Maxson stated without exaggeration, "She was an incredible soldier and leader. I remember every syllable she taught me about warfare, diplomacy, literature and hand-to-hand." There was an air of reverence to the words that bordered on worship. Maxson had dreamed that he'd find Sarah alive, almost every night for the past years, but actually having it happen…Actually having it happen now…

"What are your orders?" Kells was a soldier, a good one and, as such, he wouldn't move without the explicit instructions of the Elder.

"I want one thing made abundantly clear, to everyone." Maxson actually turned to face Kells, his face a mask of iron. "I don't want any harm to come to her, from anyone. I understand some of our former Outcasts may harbor grudges but that's in the past. Anyone lays so much as a finger on her, they'll answer to me. Is that clear?"

"Crystal. I'll pass that order down the chain."

"Secondly, I want to speak with Sarah as soon as possible. As soon as her vertibird docks I want to see her, alone. I don't want any well-wishers, I don't want any speeches, nothing. I want to speak with her at once."

"I'm sure," Kells responded, "That can be arranged."

* * *

Porter Gage still wasn't convinced. Honestly, he didn't know what would, if anything, convince him that the suited man was playing fair. The back of his neck twitched whenever he saw the slightly man, and Gage had long ago learned to trust that second sense.

Yet, one thing had been proven accurate about their mysterious benefactor's promises and that was the sheer number and diversity of gangs he'd gathered for this desperate strike against General Blackwood. Gage counted ex-Gunners, Rust Devils, Triggermen, some gang he vaguely remembered hearing something about called the Pack, Trappers from that island even one or two Super Mutants among those living in the hidden tent city the suited man had taken them to. He'd swapped stories with raiders who'd been up as far north as DC and West as the Mid-Western Brotherhood. They, as one raider who'd been a member of the Beastmasters gang told him, were not in the business of entertaining raiders in their territory. That, as far as Gage was concerned, was a quality they shared with the Minutemen.

Gage was sitting on a log, his feet practically in the fire, chomping away on a roasted iguana when Grogs stomped over to him, eyes fiery with murderous intent, seeming more angry than Gage had seen him in some time. "Porter," the leader of the Battle Rats spat out.

"Yeah, that's my handle, don't wear it out," the other responded laconically, taking a large bite of his iguana, "What can I do for you?"

The burly raider gestured over his shoulder towards the command tent, "The boss wants you for the command meeting. Apparently, word reached him that you were somehow worth listening too."

 _Well I'll be damned…_

"Sorry, what? What meeting?" Gage, of course, knew exactly what Grogs was referring to but there was something in him that wanted to hear his old boss admit to it.

For a moment Grogs looked like he was going to pass a kidney stone his gaze was so murderous with jealous rage. But, word by word, the sentence came out, ground between teeth, "The boss is gathering the leaders of the various gangs and walking them through the plan. It's happening soon and they don't want screw ups. You've been personally requested to partake in this briefing and I don't have a damn clue why they think you're worthy of that."

"I saved your ass plenty, didn't I?" Gage responded with a smirk, rising from his log and making his way towards the command tent, leaving Grogs grumbling in his wake. Evidently, the leader of the once great Battle Rats was not extended the same courtesy as his former second in command.

The guards outside that tent were a pair of Gen 2 synths clad in the remains of their Institute body armor, laser rifles held in their unwavering hands. Those inhuman yellow eyes fixed themselves on him for a moment as if scanning for some unknowable purpose. Whatever that question was must have been answered in the positive because the synth on the left pulled the tent flap open while its partner waved Gage in. With another bite of his iguana, Gage nodded and entered.

There was a simple table, once the proud center of a dinning set but now scarred and pitted, taking up most of the space. Resting atop that table was a metallic cylinder, roughly the size of a large football, the silver sheen wrapped in neon blue tubing that seemed to pulse with mysterious energy. A few sheets of paper covered in crudely drawn maps and notes took up the rest of the table space and a large map of the Commonwealth constructed on cardboard occupied up the farthest wall.

Skinny Malone, disgraced leader of the Triggermen was in hushed conversation with a raider leader wearing an Eyebot helmet. A man in a tanktop wearing a necklace of bone and a face covered in warpaint stood off to the side, arms folded, gazing ferociously towards the other leaders. A dark-skinned man wearing a suit of black combat armor sporting a sigil on the breast that Gage didn't recognized spoke with the mysterious man in the suit who'd brought what remained of the Battle Rats into the fold. Two scientists in dirty labcoats spoke a few moments while a dark man in a long black coat stood motionless with hands clasped behind his back, sunglasses hiding his expression.

The older of the two scientists gestured to his college rather harshly before turning to the motley collection of killers and thugs gathered before him. Clearing his throat, the doctor spoke, "Gentlemen, my name is Doctor Zimmer, this is my associate Doctor Ayo." Doctor Ayo didn't seem overly pleased with the situation, folding his arms across his chest and scowling but remained silent, "And this is X6-88," the man in the coat and sunglasses didn't speak, or even acknowledge that he'd been addressed.

 _A gen 3 synth. That figures alright. Creepy-ass 66 and those nerds are Institute for sure, not just a few bullshitters with stolen tech.._. _They might be able to make good on the promise of vengeance after all…_

"You've all been gathered here for one reason, a reason we all share," Doctor Zimmer continued speaking, notably avoiding any mention of the mysterious man in the suit who'd actually recruited the raiders.

 _What the hell's his deal?_

"That reason," Zimmer continued, "Is because our prospects have been destroyed, changed and taken by General Alexander Blackwood and his cursed Minutemen. The Commonwealth has been shifted to a hostile environment. Yet all our ambitions can be realized with the removal of this common enemy."

"I doubt that very much," Skinny Malone grumbled under his breath, loud enough that Zimmer could absolutely hear. The rumblings about the true purposes of the two doctors and their connections to the Institute had gone around the camp several times and Malone's opinion was one of many. These doctors were full of shit and wouldn't have pissed on the raiders if their heads had been on fire under normal circumstances, but their weapons would more than make up for any fake well-wishes.

"As many of you are aware, the cities of the Capital Wasteland are meeting with the Brotherhood and Minutemen to establish some kind of alliance. This presents us with the perfect opportunity to strike them when they're exposed. The General will be present as will every major leader in both organizations. A strike against them with our combined might will be devastating to their leadership and will present us with the opportunity to hit Sanctuary Hills and deal a crippling blow to Minutemen power."

"Have you seen Sanctuary Hills?" The man in the Eyebot helmet, clear leader of the remaining Rust Devils asked sarcastically, a question that everyone present knew the answer to. "That place is a fortress, one way in, one way out. Walls around the entire place and turrets, tons of them, all automatic. The last crew to try and get into Sanctuary got ripped to shreds before they even crossed the bridge." He clapped his hands together and pantomimed an explosion. "Between that goddamn artillery, the turrets and the squads of troopers, they were mist before anyone could get out. That's a nightmare."

Zimmer smiled wickedly, looking like death incarnate, his teeth somehow meticulously clean and white. "That's where this," he gestured towards the silver cylinder that occupied most of the table, "Comes into play." Everyone leaned forward to observe the device, "This, recovered from the Institute ruins, is a one of a kind EMP bomb. When this goes off, it's going to fry all electronics in a five mile radius. It's untested but it should get the job done."

"And, because the vast majority of the troops will be at this meeting, it'll be easy to take out plenty of 'em and smash everything we find. We're talking permanent damage to Sanctuary Hills." The man in the combat armor spoke authoritatively, without hesitation. The laser rifle strapped to his back gleamed in the light, his dark armor contrasting brilliantly against his ebony skin.

"This is Commander Davidson, with the Talon Company," Zimmer explained, "We've contracted out nearly a platoon of his finest men to assist us with the assault. After the bomb goes off, we hit the meeting in New Sanctuary with all the explosives we've got. Afterwards Mason and the Pack," he gestured towards the man in warpaint who snarled, "Will lead the charge, with everyone else, including a few of the Talon men, along the flanks. The rest of Talon Company will accompany X6-88, myself and a select few into Sanctuary Hills, where we will remove a few items we understand the Minutemen have in their possession."

"What's so goddamn special about the Pack?" Malone growled, puffing out his big chest and stamping his finely crafted shoe against the dirt, "What gives them the right of point?"

"You think you can take me on Malone?" Mason growled gesturing both arms outward boldly, "Face me if you dare!" The Triggerman didn't exactly look thrilled with the prospect.

"Gentlemen." Davidson interjected, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace, "There's no need for violence. Malone, The Pack is fresh, they've come from other places seeking glory and plunder. The Triggermen are capable fighters, and that is not in question, but Mason's men are more numerous. Yet, I promise you, there will be glory and plunder for all!"

 _A diplomat? Well I'll be damned._

"Indeed." Zimmer leaned forward, "There will be time to play king and build empires later. Once the Minutemen and Brotherhood of Steel are dust all will be as it was and raider kingdoms can live again. We move out in the morning gentlemen, prepare your men for battle."

The meeting was finished after that, Mason storming out of the tent with his typical snarl, a brace of knives, a spear, shotgun and rifle making up the Pack Alpha's visible armament. Malone and the Rust Devil both grumbled but followed without comment. Davidson approached the ex-Institute scientists, fine tuning parts of the plan for which Gage had no part.

Taking a final bite on his iguana, the raider turned to leave when the suited man stopped him. He'd moved so silently, Gage actually forgot the man was present at all. "Mr. Porter Gage," the honeyed words hadn't changed, the tone wasn't any different and the man still gave Gage the creeps. Yet it wouldn't do to deliberately piss of this mysterious benefactor, so he simple nodded. "Would you have a word with me?"

 _Like I have a choice…_

"Sure, I'll chew the fat." Tossing the iguana's skeleton out the tent, the raider nodded, ready for whatever the man in the suit stated.

"Do you believe in destiny, Mr. Gage? That our fates are guided by an invisible hand beyond our control?" Of all the questions that could have been asked him, that wasn't one of the ones he'd expected.

"Not really, no." The raider tapped the homemade rifle on his back, "I trust my gun, my eye and my wits. There's not a whole lot more than that. Anything else is bullshit."

The suited man shook his head solemnly, "A sadly-uninformed answer, though understandable given the nature of our world." Clasping Gage by the shoulder, the mustached man continued, "There are such forces. I understand them. I commune with them and they speak through me. I don't expect you to understand it, nor do you need to even believe it. What you must know is this," he gestured.

 _Great, a loon, that's friggin' grand._

"Mr. Gage, have you met Alexander Blackwood?"

Gage audibly scoffed, "The friggin' General of the Minutemen? Hell no! I've never met the guy, heard plenty but never had the misfortune to cross blades with him."

"You will. More than once." Porter Gage was a skeptical as a man could be of any claims towards a higher power, yet the strange man spoke with such conviction he almost believed what he said. "Mr. Gage, your destiny, and Blackwood's, are linked. That is why I want you to lead one of the attack squads when the time comes. I fear, without your direct influence, events will not unfold as they must unfold. Mr. Gage, when the time comes, you must act as you are drawn to."

"Sure, I suppose I can do that." One problem, "'Cept, how the hell do I get put in charge of a squad? I don't have a gang, never have. I'm an XO, damn good at it, but no boss."

The suited man simple smiled. "Leave that in my hands. You'll find they're capable of far more than you could ever possibly imagine."

* * *

Sarah Lyons sat, unmoving, unflinching, Kodiak on one side of her, Colvin and Gallows on the other. What remained of the Pride hadn't left her prescience since she'd awoken. She'd not said a word, not to Rothchild, not to Kodiak, not to anyone. She was almost afraid her voice couldn't work even if she wanted it to, even if she cared.

Her head hurt, throbbed, pounded and her memory was fuzzy. She remembered the patrol, she remembered the injury…or did she? Was it a dream of reality? Charles was there, his handsome, caring face present throughout it all. The Pride, her father, Rothchild even…and Arthur.

Kodiak said he was in charge now, that they'd overwhelming voted him in. Sarah wasn't all that sure what she thought about it. She'd hated Eldership but to think that little Arthur Maxson led her father's Brotherhood?

Fawkes, Riley and other faces, familiar and otherwise filled the hold of the massive transport, but none of them spoke to her. Not the children, not the bandit not the security chief of Rivet City, none of them.

But that suited her fine.

Sarah needed time to think.

Now only if that damned headache would let her.

* * *

 _Alexander Blackwood's Journal_

 _The Capital Wasteland's finest arrive tomorrow and the treaty talks begin the day after. I'm not sure I'm ready for all this, Cait says I am, that I'm more than man enough to, in her words, "Handle a few goddamn wimps, arsekissers and killers." I hope so, for the sake of Shaun, my son, and for any other children I may some day, God willing, have. I want to do right by them, by all them but, call me crazy, I don't think it's going to be that easy._

 _We've done all we've can, made ready our preparations and lodgings best they can be made. Even as I write this, the delegation from the Slog is moving into the church for the evening, sleeping bags and all._

 _I've got to make Ghouls shake hands with the Brotherhood, synths with soldiers, Railroad with Megatonian, farmers with mobsters. God help me, he's chosen me to be something of a figurehead for this group, I pray he knew what he was doing._

* * *

 **AN: Happy new year to all you wonderful readers out there! Thank you all so much for your continued support of this work. Yeah, I couldn't resist having a Nuka-World gang in this story, and the pack is the clear choice in my mind. Fireworks are coming soon, so stay tuned. As all ways, thanks again and see you soon.**


	7. The Calm before the Storm

**AN: Apologies, I've been making a terrible mistake in previous chapters and have gotten my geography wrong. DC is south of Boston, not north so please, in previous chapters, reverse those directions in your mind. Thanks to the reviewer for pointing that out. My bad.**

* * *

 _I love surprises. Not for me personally, but for others. I'm very good at them. They, on the other hand, don't tend to appreciate my particular brand surprise very much._

* * *

Alexander Blackwood, general of the Minutemen, snored. It wasn't a particularly manly sound, less chainsaw on firewood and more a gentle mewing. Cait sat on the edge of their bed in her fluffy pink pajamas watching the man she loved more than anything in the universe sleep in just a little. He had a full day ahead of him, with the dignitaries from DC and across the Commonwealth, each requiring accommodations, information, specified briefings and other various nonsense. She didn't have the heart to wake him yet, giving him a few moments more. As soon as he woke there would be problems enough to solve.

Besides all that, Cait wasn't feeling her best. Her head was throbbing and her stomach was grumbling. The night before she'd actually vomited, twice. Once upon a time she'd have passed off that response from her body as nothing but the aftereffects of a typical night. But now…she wasn't drinking anything stronger than a beer every once and awhile and she'd utterly sworn off chems save stimpaks. Maybe she was getting a cold or flu, it was that time of year after all…

"Goddamn cold," she growled to no one in particular, pulling the pajamas a little tighter around herself. After another moment of self-indulgent admiration for her boyfriend she patted him on the leg. "Alright cowboy, up and at 'em. You've got a hell of a day ahead of you."

* * *

Charles watched with anticipation as the vertibird set them down on the landing pad just inside the walls of Sanctuary Hills. The city had honestly taken his breath away. He'd heard descriptions of course, the tales of what the Minutemen built had trickled down to DC, including accounts of their well known capital of Sanctuary Hills. He'd been told that it was a city to rival Megaton or Rivet, and while it certainly wasn't the only settlement the Minutemen controlled, it was apparently the most grand. He'd heard tales of Starlight City and its arena, and of Diamond City, capital of the Commonwealth but he was astounded by what he saw before him.

It was the buildings, far more than he'd ever seen in one place, save for old pictures and vids, and though many were could only be called shacks out of pity, the sheer volume impressed him. There were fields of corn and carrots, with generators humming, electric lights flashing, even a few robots tromping around. Several flags flapped proudly in the autumn breeze, unflinching and unwavering atop their aluminum poles, their blue and white lettering proudly announcing this was Minutemen territory and that anyone who wanted it would have to take it. Alongside those flew the Gadston flag, the coiled snake against yellow warning the enemies of the United Commonwealth that treading on these seemingly simple farmers and settlers would end unpleasantly.

An artillery piece was trained towards the south, aiming past the former Red Rocket gas station that housed the town of New Sanctuary, where Charles would be staying for the next few days. The general bustle was audible even above the whirl of the vertibird blades. Smoke from cooking fires made their path snake-like towards the open sky.

"Amazing," Dave murmured, gazing out longingly towards the sprawling town scattered out before him, "Almost grand enough to rival the Republic of Dave itself."

"Uh-huh," Simms responded without obvious sarcasm, himself perhaps a little jealous of this town compared to his beloved Megaton, itself practically a paradise within the horrifying, blasted, countryside that was the Capital Wasteland. Still, the flag-flying grandeur of Sanctuary Hills was hard to beat. Harkness, the stoic Security Chief of Rivet City did his best to seem unimpressed with the humming generators and string of repurposed lights. Alexander Blackwood seemed to be quite the tinker, both by reputation and visible confirmation.

The frost coating the concrete landing pad crunched beneath the vertibird's wheels as the lead copter set itself down. Several rocket turrets swung towards the 'bird, scanned it and, after determining it was allied, spun away. As the two much larger vertibirds set down behind them and began discharging their occupants Charles dropped out the side, pulling his battered old CSA cap, still smelling a little like swamp, down around his ears to cut down on the chill.

The Power Armor clad Brotherhood of Steel Paladins descended in a storm of boots against ground, shaking the earth as they moved. Charles had worked around the Brotherhood long enough that the movement of McGraw and his squad did nothing to distract him, his focus was on General Blackwood.

Alexander was taller than expected, his face freshly shaved except for a crisp-well maintained beard of a dark brown, almost black in shade. His eyes were a piercing cool blue, despite being dulled behind a pair of bulky unflattering glasses. His nose was slightly lopsided, having been broken and healed improperly long ago. Numerous old scars and burns took their place over his face, yet even their grim nature couldn't hide the smattering of bright freckles across his face. He was clad in a bright blue uniform, longcoat, black tricorn hat and dark gloves. His belt bore a sword of revolutionary war design and a Remington 1875 revolver, on his back rested an old combat rifle with an oversized clip.

Beside the general stood two men in dusters and hats signifying the rank of Colonel, one a dark-skinned, clean-shaven, plain-looking man and the other taller, Caucasian, with smatterings of dirt and oil across his face and a black beard not quite as well maintained. Charles noted the McGraw and most of the other Brotherhood troops pointedly ignored Blackwood's Caucasian officer, one actually pointedly turning his back on him.

Blackwood stepped forward and offered a gloved hand to shake, "General Alexander Blackwood, United Commonwealth Minutemen. It's a pleasure to meet you at last, Lone Wanderer."

It took Charles a second to realize that Alexander actually had no way of knowing that title was attached to him. Yet there wasn't another individual emerging from the 'birds dressed in a vault suit and, armored though his was, there was no missing it. "Please, just call me Charles." He shook the general's hand eagerly, "I understand congratulations are in order. The Institute was a huge threat to us all."

"No less than the Enclave." There was no false bravado in the tone, no unnecessary praise, it was simply one gentleman soldier describing another's vaunted accomplishment. After the handshake ended, Alexander turned to introduce his two subordinates, "This is Colonel Preston Garvey and Colonel Danse." Once again, Danse was pointedly ignored by the Brotherhood escort. "Colonel Ronnie Shaw is back at the Castle, the main military base of operations for the United Commonwealth Minutemen, just in case we have any last minute issues with raiders or mutants. Not that there are many of those left." Those words were accompanied by the contented sigh of a man who'd worked hard for something and finally got it.

"President Dave, of the Republic of Dave," The former mercenary interrupted, butting into the conversation, taking Alexander's hand for a forced handshake, "Looking forward to unity between our two great nations."

 _I doubt that._

"It's not really my country, President Dave," Alexander responded with an even, diplomatic tone that Charles wouldn't have been able to maintain. Dave amused him, that much was true, yet he couldn't speak to Dave without at least a hint of mockery. "The United Commonwealth is a land for all, a beacon of freedom, hope and old-world morality. After this treaty is hammered out I have plans to begin drafting a constitution and organizing an election cycle. If the United Commonwealth is to survive and become what I dream it must be free and independent."

"Very good sir," McGraw responded before Dave had the opportunity to continue his ramblings, "This is," in order he gestured to each as he mentioned them by name, "Chief Harkness, with Rivet City security, Mayor Lucas Simms with Megaton and Uncle Leo, Canterbury Commons. Additionally they've been followed by plenty of fellow citizens who're disembarking from the transport 'birds." Sure enough, even as introductions were being made, Charles noticed, Moria Brown stumble out of her transport, stretching her arms over her head with a large yawn. Fawkes, holding James in one hand and Theo in the other without any visible effort, his sensitive eyes blinking in the light shining through his spectacles. Gob shielding his eyes from the sun with the back of his hand while Charon simply stood frozen and stoic.

Then, something got his attention. It was towards the back of the second transport past Head Scribe Rothchild, Olin and his old friend Star Paladin Cross. A figure, a woman, blonde, tall, proud with stunning features, was being escorted quickly by a full fireteam of Brotherhood Paladins, in full Power Armor, towards a building marked, "Brotherhood Embassy." Charles recognized her as his old friend, Sarah Lyons, who, despite everything McGraw had told him, somehow still doubted was actually alive.

Obviously, Blackwood wasn't thrilled with the cloak and dagger Brotherhood of Steel internal politics but he must have been briefed about Sarah's arrival as he made no comment. Pointedly ignoring the fact that Sarah was rushed into the embassy without a solitary word to anyone, Alexander spoke, "I understand you'll want to get your people settled, comfortable and unpacked. It must have been a bit of a journey…"

"My legs are killing me," Simms admitted without flair or exaggeration, "And I'm sure my people are looking forward to exploring a bit on their own."

"Well then," Alexander clapped his hands together excitedly, "If you'll follow us over to New Sanctuary, I'll point some landmarks out along the way and we'll get your people properly billeted. Afterward we'll go over a few last minute things and prepare for the morning. Big things are coming, and I'm looking forward to seeing them finally unfold."

"General Alexander," Charles stated simply, "That makes two of us."

* * *

"She's here." Kells' voice cut through the fuzz of Maxson's internalized turmoil as he struggled with everything happening within the next few hours. He missed the Prydwen, but they couldn't very well hold the talks on the airship and, if he wanted the Brotherhood of Steel to be involved in these talks, he had to be present. So he took up residence in the Brotherhood Embassy in Sanctuary Hills, dreading the conversation he was about to have wishing desperately for the comfort of his magnificent airship.

Until the talks were finished he ordered the Prydwen to remain close by but out of reach of an attack. He didn't want to risk the fate of his most important tool, not when so many Brotherhood personalities were at this particular conference.

Arthur was bent over a holographic table, one of several Alexander had liberated from the Institute during the final assault, observing the various movements of Brotherhood squads, Minutemen troops and any unknown parties. The United Commonwealth was a remarkably quiet place, far more than DC which, even now, was still war-torn and blasted, with Mutants and slaver camps plentiful as ever.

The sounds of one person entering the embassy and the door closing, suggested Kells had sent Sarah in by herself. For one painfully long moment, Elder Maxson, the highest ranking warrior within the Brotherhood of Steel, actually almost called out for Kells to return, to stand beside him as this conversation commenced. But Arthur was a Maxson and he was made of sterner stuff than that. He could, and would, handle this matter alone.

Looking up from his holographic projection his eyes fell upon Sarah Lyons for the first time in years. She remained just as beautiful, just as ethereal as ever. The woman remained unchanged by time, still tall and strong, her eyes pure blue, her hair long and golden, every line of her face in the place he remembered.

She took his breath away, her mere presence almost driving him to the ground. However his expression remained stoic through the sheerest force of will. He was about to speak but the coldness, the disdain radiating from her actually interrupted his train of thought. Instead of the prepared remarks he'd planned to initiate the dialogue with the former Sentinel, Arthur stammered out the words, "Sarah, you haven't changed." It wasn't a fantastic opening line but it was all he had.

For her part, Sarah Lyons coldly riposted, "Arthur, you have." There was something about the words that stung him. Perhaps it was the speaker.

 _My will is iron, my body is steel. I will remain true to the Codex. My will is iron, my body is steel. I will remain true to the Codex. My will is iron…_

"Time passed. The Brotherhood needed strong leadership." He wouldn't be cowed by the attacks from the woman he still loved. He would move forward.

"They needed leadership after my father was murdered." She said it, she finally said it aloud. Sarah had always implied it, without much subtlety, but she'd never openly stated that challenge before. And, the way it was stated implied far more than merely a murder, it implied that Arthur himself had more to do with that murder than he let on.

"Sarah, Own Lyons wasn't murdered…"

"Right. He just conveniently passed away and then, when I was chosen as High Elder, within the span of a year they tried to kill me. And now you're High Elder, coincidence?" The sarcasm was palatable.

That hurt. That challenge physically hurt him, but Arthur didn't let her see it. "It doesn't matter what you choose to believe." The words were harsh, stated bluntly, "I am High Elder, I was chose by the majority of council votes, including your father's friend Head Scribe Rothchild. I didn't have anything to do with the death of your father, believe it or don't, the fact will remain unchanged."

Sarah didn't answer but her gaze spoke volumes. She hated him, and everything he stood for.

"Sarah." He said her name with a degree of softness he wasn't particularly known for. She still had him wrapped around her finger like he was his old boyhood self with his pre-teen crush. She looked at him, face unreadable. "I want you to know that I missed you. I wish you'd never vanished. I do. Believe me, if we'd know you were still alive I'd have torn DC down brick by brick to find you." He leaned forward onto the table, head tilted downward towards the holographic table, "I understand that everything must feel so strange to you. Times have changed, our enemies have changed. What we're working to achieve, right here, right now, with tomorrow's treaties and negotiations is something your father would have wanted, would have worked to achieve himself."

"I doubt that…"

"Lasting peace, Sarah! That's what this is about!" Finally, Elder Maxson raised his voice, finally, the barrier broke and he yelled at her. "I've sweated blood bringing humanity back from the brink, by preserving it from itself! I unified the Brotherhood that your father splintered! I've helped Blackwood build a thriving country here in the ruins of Boston! And now I'm working on a treaty that will ensure this stability spreads towards DC and does what your father never could, actually make a difference!"

"But the Enclave…"

"If James and Charles hadn't been there your father wouldn't have gotten ten feet! They carried the DC Brotherhood!" Finally, feeling the hoarseness in his throat and something resembling embarrassment at the emotional outburst reared its head and Arthur ceased his speaking.

Sarah looked at him, gazed with something resembling confused agony. Her head was cocked slightly to the side, blonde eyebrow raised inquisitively. "Is that what you tell yourself at night?" The thin layer of sarcasm was blindly obvious and the pain coming from the words tore him apart, "You've gotten real good at justifying yourself, Arthur."

Arthur Maxson threw his hands up in exasperation, "I don't care, Sarah. I don't care what you believe I did or do, what matters is that you follow my instructions as High Elder." He gestured towards New Sanctuary on the holographic map, "Tomorrow morning, we begin one of the most important meetings, perhaps the most important, in the history of our post-war world. You may attend this meeting with me, you may even raise an opinion on the various developments, but you may not criticize me publicly, or try to undermine my authority. I am High Elder, and, for the purposes of this meeting, must remain unchallenged."

"But…"

"Let me finish." Arthur cut Sarah's protest short with a sharp, curt, wave of his hand. "Until these meetings are ended I must remain unchallenged. The Steel must remain strong. However," he paused momentarily, letting the word dangle, tantalizingly in the air, "After all these diplomatic formalities are done and the details of the treaty are ratified as best they can be made, I am willing to present the situation before the counsel of Elders and have a revote, giving you a fair opportunity to peacefully reclaim your seat as High Elder, assuming the council accepts you back."

Sarah looked momentarily taken aback by this. "You're willing to potentially lose your seat? Not that the council is likely to vote you out, you've got the name." It was true enough, a Maxson was the founder of the original Brotherhood of Steel, and a Maxson was typically the High Elder. Arthur had gotten plenty of support from the ranks and his feat of reunifying the Outcasts with the Brotherhood proper was further strength for his claim. Yet regardless, it was no guarantee of success.

"Yes. The stability and continuation of the East Coast Brotherhood of Steel is my primary concern. I will not have civil war and infighting. I will not watch the Prydwen come crashing down and Paladins killed by others of our order. "

"I don't intend…" Sarah began but, once again, Arthur cut her off.

"Your intentions, while admirable, might be ultimately irrelevant. Some within our order still carry a torch for your father's name and ideals. They may make the first move. Or, others may move against you in the same way. A proper ruling by the counsel will bypass most of these problems and show the rest of the Brotherhood that we do not want a power struggle. Do we?" His eyes bore down on her, dark brown furrowing as he pushed the full force of his wrath behind it. More than his own power, the most important thing was a unified Brotherhood of Steel; that alone would guarantee the future successes of the order.

"No." Sarah admitted, genuine intent in her tone for the first time since the conversation began, "We don't want a split."

"Good." Arthur turned his back to the Lyons' daughter and gazed towards the crisp and well-maintained Brotherhood of Steel standard hanging from the wall. "Now, I understand you've probably got people you want to see and want to see you. That'll be all, Sentinel Lyons."

There was a long, heavy pause, as if both individuals want to say more but wouldn't admit it. There was pain, utter agony, in that silence and Arthur wanted nothing more than for it to end.

Fortunately Sarah couldn't either and, without a word, turned and left the embassy, slamming the door behind her with emphasis.

Despite the agony of his newest interaction with his beloved Sarah, Arthur Maxson found that her absence hurt him all the more…

* * *

Piper Wright leaned forward dramatically in her chair, nibbling the eraser on the end of her pencil thoughtfully. The fire beneath the old Red Rocket's awning was crackling brilliantly, contrasting against the deep darkness of the Commonwealth night. Even as the electric lights that Blackwood had acquired and jerry-rigged blinked in the darkness, the gentle hum of the generators keeping them alive, Piper found the comforting warmth of a good fire was still vastly superior despite the efficiency of the lights. Her interviewee seemed to agree.

"So," she asked him, jotting a few thoughts down onto her notepad before diving into the interview. "For the Publick's records, your name is Abraham Finch?"

The bearded man with the old double-barreled shotgun leaned against his leather and scrap metal armor nodded, his straw hat wobbling, "That's right, Abraham, patriarch of the Finch family and proud owner of the Finch farm and surrounding community."

"And Finch farm was the first settlement to throw support behind the Minutemen?" Piper knew the answer, she was a good journalist and she did her homework.

"Absolutely." Abraham thumped his chest proudly, holding his head high, "My farm was the second building in the Commonwealth to fly the flag of Blackwood's Minutemen. In fact, the supply line we established with Sanctuary Hills is still proudly functioning today."  
"I've walked that trail," Piper admitted readjusting her hat with a little chuckle, "It's practically a highway now." She paused, pondering the exact right way to phrase her next question. "It must've taken something special to get you to sign up with this ragtag band of laser-musket toting misfits and trust your future to them. What convinced you Blackwood was for real?"

"Well," Abraham leaned back in the old rocking chair, folding his fingers and chewing his beard thoughtfully, "It was years ago. My son, Jake, was convinced he was going to become a raider, ran off to join some local crazies calling themselves 'Forged.' Stole the family sword while he was at it." He paused, glancing towards the fire, his boisterous tone shifting to one of soft contemplation. "I guess maybe I drove him away… We didn't have the best relationship…"

"The Forged," Piper mused, moving away from the awkward family dynamic, "Cait told me about that. She and Blue…er, General Blackwood, fought those lunatics for a while. They were holed up inside an old steel mill near the overpass."

"Yeah, that's right, down by The Slog, we could see the fires depending on how dark it was at night." Abraham jumped onboard the opportunity to avoid bringing up a painful past experience, "Did you know the Minutemen have got that plant running again? Sort of, we're in the process of making new steel."

"Yeah," Piper nodded, "I've been there. Some fantastic work is being done. But what about him inspired you?"

"Alexander Blackwood, and his red-headed girlfriend, not that they were together back then, went into the plant, killed a bunch of Forged and rescued my son. He convinced me to bring Jake back into my home and I honestly believed every word he said about the Minutemen's come back. He had charisma, negotiating skills and undoubtedly combat experience. Plus, have you seen some of the shit he's built at my farm? He's a smart guy. I trust him."

"How much?"

"Utterly." The farmer stated without hesitation or doubt, "He's a man I'd follow into hell, no questions."

"Do you trust his ability to negotiate terms with the Capital Wasteland?"

"Hell yes!" The farmer slammed both fists against the arms of the old chair, "The Minutemen are back and they're going to do what's best for everyone, I swear it."

* * *

"Yer nervous." Cait told him, running her hand across his chest, counting the freckles on his nose and mentally tracing the crisscross of scars across his face. He was squinting towards the ceiling, face as stony as Uncle Sam's on those old war bond posters Alexander insisted on hanging in the bedroom.

"How can you tell?" He asked quietly, hands gripping the quilt, eyes squinting as he tried to count ceiling tiles without his glasses on.

"Woman's intuition." She snorted at her own comment rolling onto her back and following her man's gaze towards the ceiling. "Besides, you're looking for patterns in the roof. And you always do that when you're nervous."

"It's a big deal, Cait," He admitted softly, "And I'm not sure I've got what it takes to pull this off."

"You're gonna do grand, sweetheart," the former cage fighter told him, kissing his forehead softly, "You always do."

He turned over to look her in the face, "As long as you've got my back."

She kissed him firmly, "I always do and I always will."

* * *

As far as repurposed boxcars went this one was nice. Proper guest beds, fine rugs and paintings of landscapes had turned the orange sheet metal box into a comfortable, albeit temporary, residence. It wasn't the accommodations that bother Charles as he stared up towards the rusty patches on the ceiling, searching the patchy bits for some kind of meaning. He was disconcerted, for multiple reasons.

Riley was curled up against him, snoring gently, a wisp of her orange hair blowing up and down with each breath. The bed a row down groaned beneath the massive bulk of Fawkes the Super Mutant, whose own snoring added to the cacophony of sound.

Still he'd slept through worse, gunfire, hangovers, bitter cold and low-level radiation poisoning and so that wasn't what affected him. He'd met the delegations from Diamond City and spoken with this legendary Nick Valentine, the flamboyant mayor of Goodneighbor Hancock, the Overseer from 81 and several farmers and small-town mayors. The quality of people was fine, the power of the Minutemen and Brotherhood was overwhelmingly impressive and yet he still felt uneasy.

He still hadn't spoken to Sarah Lyons, and that was unfortunate. He needed honesty from the Brotherhood and he wasn't sure what was happening in his old organization. His old warrior's senses were screaming in his head that something wasn't right, something of monumental consequence was right around the bend. But no matter how hard he tried he couldn't put his finger on it.

The Lone Wanderer pulled his wife closer and slept as best he could, trying to convince himself that the morning would bring nothing but spirited debate and good things.

A pity he was wrong.

* * *

The sun was shining brightly overhead, chasing away the chill of the late season and warming his skin. The birds were chirping happily and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was a picture-perfect day, the kind of morning that made life worth living, that brought joy to the average being's existence. It was a day, Gage thought to himself, that seemed utterly unfit for the slaughter that was about to unfold.

He crept through the tall grass, homemade rifle slung over his shoulder, moving as silently as he could considering how many other raiders were alongside him. The Pack members moved with an animalistic cunning, a litheness that none of the other raiders could match. The Talon Company mercs held stoic professionalism, at least the company that followed his group. He'd watched most of the armored warriors slip away towards Sanctuary Hills, accompanied by the suited man and X6-88. They would wait until the attack began and the EMP bomb detonated, then the chaos would begin.

His gang of raiders, like most of the others, carried any heavy weapons they'd find. The rocket launcher in his hands was more a tube with a grenade shoved into it than a properly manufactured weapon, still, he only needed to make one good shot.

The forest around him fell away as they approached the bluff, the two Institute Coursers moving forward under the cover of Stealth Boys, clearing the way of any lingering threat. Armitage however stayed close to Doctor Zimmer, the elderly man clutching the glowing bomb tightly against his chest and swearing under his breath. Despite his relatively frail frame and small nature it seemed the scientist was sturdier than he appeared.

Gage was unsure exactly where they were when he heard the whistle from ahead, a signal from the Coursers that he was needed up front. Careful not to jostle the homemade rocket launcher unessessarily Gage hustled up the slight bluff that blocked his vision and when he reached the top got a good look around. Atop the hill was a small radio, set to that bloody freedom station the Minutemen used for their broadcast, a small folding chair and a body. That body belonged to a Minuteman soldier, his neck snapped and laser musket lying on the ground fully charged but unlikely to be every fired again.

Far below the bluff, about a mile away was New Sanctuary, the hum of generators and turrets audible from even their great distance. What became immediately apparent was the sheer number of people gathered below. From this distance he could see Brotherhood of Steel soldiers in full power armor, Minutemen in their freshly cleaned uniforms, Ghouls from the Slog and Vault Dwellers. He saw who he assumed was Nick Valentine, two Super Mutants and a few men and women in green armor. It was an impressive force and, for a moment, Porter Gage was afraid he'd bitten off more than he could chew when he signed up.

His forehead began to sweat, but with a quick wipe of the back of his hand he cleared it away. The nearest Courser whispered, "Get ready, line up your explosives and be quick about it. As soon as the EMP detonates we'll hit them with a barrage and charge in, guns blazing." Even as Zimmer moved towards the bluff, huffing and puffing all the way, keeping the EMP wrapped in his arms tightly, the various rocket launchers, grenade launchers and miniguns and their owners made their way up the bluff.

The second Courser began assembling his anti-matter rifle, slowly locking each 50 caliber round into place with machine-like precision. Gage was overwhelmingly glad he wouldn't be on the other end of that scope. Taking his rocket-tube and bracing it against his shoulder, Gage waited, and waited for the instruction to go.

Behind him, Skinny Malone grumbled, "Come on, come on! I wanna get stuck in!" Double checking that the safety on his submachine gun was disabled, the leader of the Triggerman stamped his feet and waited. A Gunner, freshly arrived that previous day, lit up a cigarette while a raider from the Rust Devils took one last hit of Jet.

Zimmer took a knee in the front planting the bomb before him, his hand on the detonator, waiting for the signal. One of the Coursers continued to watch the gathering below, this time through the scope of his rifle, observing the numerous individuals moving around the large table, signing, debating and discussing.

Gage watched, aiming as best he could with his one good eye and he noticed something unusual. Staggering up the road towards the gathering was a hunched over figure stumbling forward determinedly.

That seemed to shape the response from the Courser with the rifle.

"Doctor," he told Zimmer firmly, "Go now."

It was firm and steady but there was a degree of hurriedness to the new order. Zimmer didn't hesitate, slamming his hand down onto the detonator without hesitation. There was a loud crackling and a wave of blue energy rushed outward from the silver cylinder, rushing past his skin, raising the hair on his arms and sending a tingling sensation throughout his form.

The humming of the generators ceased as the blue ring passed by, the buzzing of the turrets ended as the automatic weapons were forced to shut down. As soon as the EMP pulse ended Gage's response was automatic, he'd been ready for that moment, he knew what he had to do.

He took aim with his rocket tube towards the man in the biggest hat, the man he assumed was Blackwood and he pulled the trigger.

* * *

 _Alexander Blackwood's Journal_

 _(On that day the general wrote nothing.)_


	8. Blitz

_There's something so personal about a knife…something so artistic and pure. If one must survive imminent threat the crudeness of a firearm can be forgiven but it will never match the purity of the blade…_

* * *

"And so, as part of the arrangement between our great nation and the city-states of the Capital Wasteland, we will ensure that both the Brotherhood of Steel, and the Commonwealth Minutemen have embassies in each of your towns." Alexander Blackwood stated with dramatic certainty, loud enough to be heard throughout the massive rumbling crowd. His signature went onto the document directly beside Maxson's and across from those of several Capital Wasteland leaders. On the outside he was smiling, shaking hands as people around him applauded and embraced; on the inside he was exhausted. Even this relatively small decision had taken hours to approve, with Nick Valentine of all people being the one to finally convince those present that recognizing DC as a collection of City-States would be the only way to settle the myriad of other problems that were arising from place the embassies.

After a spirited debate about whether DC should adopt a permanent government and leader or whether a council was good enough, perhaps even leaving the possibility for a president or prime minister down the road, in the end, the decision to put an embassy in each town was agreed upon. While it would give him access to numerous places and eyes across the board, it'd stretch his number of troops thinner. Recruitment of new troops would prove an absolute necessity.

Head Scribe Rothchild moved forward to address the table, "Now, the motion of officially recognizing points of land within both the United Commonwealth and the Capital Wasteland as sovereign Brotherhood of Steel territory, where the Codex will be considered law."

Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing a little bit behind his glasses. If making a ruling on the embassies had been difficult then establishing land as officially belonging to the Brotherhood would be a nightmare.

Someone in the crowd, an old ghoul from DC was raising his hand to make the first of what would, no doubt, be many complaints, when something unexpected happened. Deacon was at his side in a moment, "General, we've got someone coming up the road. Looks like a Gunner and she's hurt bad."

"Where the hell's out scouting parties? Why haven't they stopped her?" Alexander wasn't happy. Something wasn't right about the entire situation, his palms were itching and, if the war taught him anything it was listen to his gut instincts.

"Got no idea boss," Deacon admitted, his expression hidden behind his glasses, "MacCready hasn't radioed in yet…"

But Alexander Blackwood never did get to find out what the sniper would have said because everything happened in an instant. Out of nowhere came a rapidly expanding wave of blue energy, sweeping across the countryside. Before he could move it passed through him, jolting the general for a moment and, disconcertingly, shutting down his Pip-Boy.

"What the hell was that?" Danse shouted, making his voice heard over several panicking citizens, "Somebody get me some goddamn answers!"

Then, Blackwood heard the sound, the sound of an explosive streaking towards him. He turned to see a rocket speeding his way. "General! Get down!" Someone shoved him to the ground away from the inevitable explosion. Alexander fell to the ground just in time to see the missile impact directly in front of the man who'd saved his life, Preston Garvey. His most trusted Colonel flew into the air, spinning end over end, before slamming into the pavement.

"Preston!" He cried out in panic, scrambling to his feet. Yet before he could take a step several more missiles impacts around him, tearing into the Red Rocket, the various shops and shacks…and the crowds. People around him screamed in pain and panic, the smell of burning flesh and gunpowder filling the air. He saw a Paladin slam his armored fist against his helmet, stumbling blindly. The table was overturned and several bodies were visible. Blake Abernathy clutched his left arm in his right, desperate to stop the flow of blood from a wound, Wiseman stood over one of his fallen ghouls, holding his wooden staff in both hands like a guardian angel.

He scrambled towards Preston Garvey, "Curie! Curie! Bring everything! We've got a man down!" He fell to his knees besides Garvey, desperately feeling around the man's neck for a pulse. To his immense relief it was there, but faint. To his horror, he saw that Garvey was now missing both his right arm and leg, lost in the explosion. "Goddamnit…we've got to stop the flow of blood," he murmured to himself thinking desperately about what to do next.

Then he heard the war-whoop, echoing across the valley. A rising, thunderous cacophony of many voice crying for blood and skulls rolling towards him like fog. Keeping a gloved hand pinched around Preston's severed arm, Alexander looked up towards the nearby hills and forests. Rushing towards the smoldering husk of New Sanctuary, turrets disabled, walls punched full of holes and crops flaming, was a mob of raiders. There were all types, Triggermen, Gunners, Rust Devils and groups from smaller gangs. He saw a small contingent of armored warriors, with a white talon painted on the breast of the chestplate, moving in while firing laser rifles and automatic weapons. However, the largest contingent was a gang he'd never seen before, a huge band of brightly colored maniacs, with gasmasks and helmets shaped like animal heads.

Some of the raiders fired ranged weapons, pipe guns, assault rifles, even a few hunting rifles, as they ran towards him but most carried pipes, boards and other melee tools. The first Minuteman to arrive beside him took a bullet to the chest and collapsed in a heap. The second's head exploded like an overfilled balloon, her lifeless body crumpling.

Blackwood didn't have time to look or cry out for help because the mob was drawing close, the frontrunners breaking away. One large raider with a nail-studded board was a mere few meters from Alexander. Snatching up Preston's fallen laser musket, the general cranked it three times and fired. The laser beam punched a hole clean through the board-wielder's chest. Even as the raider fell, Alexander cranked the musket twice, pressed the butt against his shoulder, squinted down the sight and pulled the trigger. The blast of energy took an assault-rifle carrying raider with an elephant-shaped gasmask in the shoulder, the energy disintegrating the attacker.

There wasn't time for a third shot, tossing the musket aside Alexander took a step to stand before Preston's broken body. Drawing his revolver and Shem Drowe sword, Alexander opened fire with his Remington, loosing three of the six rounds within his chamber. Three raiders fell, but a forth fired the hunting rifle in his hands with better than average accuracy. The bullet struck Alexander above the knee in his left leg leaving a burst of pain.

Grunting in agony, Alexander aimed and fired a solitary round from his revolver, striking the hunting rifle carrying raider in the forehead. He didn't have time for another ranged attack as the mob crashed over him. A raider armed with a pool cue wrapped in barbed wire swung for his face. Catching the weapon on his sword Alexander pivoted, redirecting the force of the blow before slashing out with his blade. Decapitating that raider he found himself face to face with a brightly colored raider, his face pained like a psychotic clown.

The clown chopped with a jagged machete towards Blackwood's throat, but the general blocked the strike, punching out with his sword, slamming the raider's face with the blade's crossguard. The clown staggered away as a raider in a gorilla mask and a fire axe held in both hands rushed screaming at him. Without thinking Alexander fired his Remington two more times, putting both rounds in the raider's chest. As the gorilla fell, the general slammed his empty revolver into the holster while blocking a nail-studded baseball bat swung by another raider, this one in a radstag helm. Kicking out with his uninjured leg, Alexander struck the attacker in the knee, driving him to the ground and driving the point of his sword through the raider's throat.

The clown was back, bleeding from the nose but with fire in the eyes suggesting a Psycho-fueled rage as he swung the machete wildly. Alexander ducked the last blow, driving his blade upward, punching the sword's point clean through the raider's stomach and out his back.

Shifting about, the raider still impaled on his sword, Alexander blocked a barrage of submachine gun bullets fired from the Tommy gun of a Triggerman who'd made his way behind him. Despite his best efforts a bullet slipped by, punching through Blackwood's shoulder in a mist of blood. The ghoul grinned beneath the brim of his fedora, teeth a brilliant contrast to his skinless body. It was clear from the Triggerman's feral expression that he knew another burst of 10 millimeter ammunition would shred what remained of the clown raider's corpse and put Alexander in the ground.

But that barrage never arrived. With a powerful roar, Strong came rushing to Alexander's side, a sledgehammer held in each mighty hand, his extra large Minutemen uniform straining around the Super Mutant's muscles. Smashing both hammers against the Triggerman, Strong hit the ghoul so hard the bandit bounced against the ground, bones shattered beyond repair.

"Strong protect human!" The Super Mutant bellowed, swinging his hammers towards a Rust Devil who'd come too close to Preston's fallen form.

Rushing up to Alexander's left side, holding a minigun in his un-augmented arms, muscles straining as he held the massive weapon aloft, was Colonel Danse, spraying bullets towards the continuing mob of raiders. "Everyone rally to the general! Rally and form a line!" He roared, his voice carrying above the din of battle.

Alexander looked up from reloading his revolver and saw another wave coming over the hill, on both sides of New Sanctuary and, to his abject horror, he saw several Institute Synths, armed to the teeth and ready for vengeance. Slamming the last bullet into the Remington and snapping the wheel closed, General Blackwood rose, held his sword aloft and echoed the cries of his still standing Colonel. "Everyone on me! Hold the line! Hold to the last!"

* * *

When the explosive attack struck New Sanctuary Arthur Maxson was about to put a new issue forward, he was going to instruct Kells to check up on security and bring up another squad of Paladins to shore up the right side of the Red Rocket. Yet all that fell apart in moments as the area around him lit up with explosions.

His ears were ringing, his face stung with flying shrapnel, it was all so sudden, so fast. He came to, ears ringing, face bleeding from multiple sources, spitting out a tooth that had been dislodged by the fall. Several scribes and knights lay dead in the initial assault; even two paladins in Power Armor hadn't survived.

Head Scribe Rothchild lay in a ball, the old man bleeding profusely from a head wound. Proctor Quinlan staggered about, his eyes blurry and glasses shattered, coughing blood onto his formerly pristine robes. A ghoul farmer fell past Maxson, his fleshless body burning like a torch.

Arthur rose to his feet, coming face to face with Captain Kells. Before he could even speak, Kells roared, "High Elder Maxson's still alive! Get him out of here! Now!" A rag-tag band of Paladins and knights was around him in moments, two Power Armored Paladins taking each of his arms.

"Apologies, Elder Maxson," the one spoke, a gruff man with deep bass voice, "We need to get you to the Vertibird." Argument was not an option. Kells waved them away, drawing his laser pistol and rushing to take command of whatever Brotherhood of Steel forces remained active.

He was still dazed, still stunned, his body refusing to respond to the will of his mind to stay and fight. Alexander was fighting and Maxson wouldn't allow himself to be shamed by being removed from the field, yet it was so fast, so damned unexpected that he wasn't truly sure what to do at all.

The small squad of troops around him made it to the back of New Sanctuary's central Red Rocket when they were hit. A blood-curdling roar, echoing from several throats sounded and a team of Rust Devils, accompanied by Assaultrons, scrap 'bots and a few angry Gunners, burst from the surround brush, rushing towards the Brotherhood of Steel forces.

Maxson shook free of the grasp of both Paladins on either side, who were each suddenly very busy drawing laser and plasma rifles and pouring fire on the attackers. Drawing his ornate laser pistol, Maxson put a trio of shots into the central processor of a scrap 'bot, dropping the Frankenstein monstrosity in a tangle of twisted limbs. A knight beside him fell, dropping his plasma rifle as a wave of bullets mowed him like grass. The Elder had the rifle in hand instantly, firing towards the Rust Devils, dropping two raiders in a burst of precise weapon fire.

One of the Power Armored soldiers fell as two Gunners hit him with plasma grenades, punching through his already damaged armor. As the big paladin fell, his brother was avenging the death, pouring laser fire onto the pair of mercenaries.

An assaultron came rushing in out of nowhere, the razor sharp saw blades at the end of both arms spinning. A scribe with a flamer tried to get between the combat robot and Maxson, and ended up split in half along the waist for his trouble. Even as the man fell apart in an absolute shower of blood and gore the elder was throwing up his arms in an attempt to put a laser bolt through the robot's head. It was a losing situation but the leader of the Brotherhood wasn't going to die without making a fight of it.

Yet the assaultron never reached him. A burst of laser rifle fire severed the robot's head from its neck in a spurt of wires and sparks. The defunct killing machine fell in a heap, one last defiant battle cry gargling forth from its vocal processor. The source of the killing blow was somewhat unexpected.

Striding forward in her Brotherhood jumpsuit, flanked by Graves, Kodiak and Colvin was Sarah Lyons, her laser rifle smoking gently. "It seems you've still got plenty to learn from me, short stuff." Her face was twisted up in a smirk, nose crinkling slightly in that mischievous grin he remembered so well.

Arthur smiled back at her, "Looks that way, doesn't it?"

Honestly, he didn't mind at all…

* * *

Charles was ducking beneath the flaming remains of a vendor's stall, the sign suggesting it had sold cuts of meat before this, but now didn't seem like it'd be selling much of anything. The raiders were far more numerous that he'd expected, falling on them like a wave after a salvo of high explosives.

Slamming a fresh clip into his Chinese Assault rifle and slapping the butt to ensure it was locked in place, the Lone Wander stuck his head up long enough to get a handle on the situation. The Rivet security guards who'd come with Harkness were dead to a man, Harkness himself, who was moving with inhuman grace and precision, spraying assault rifle fire towards the still advancing mob of killers.

The bodies of various dignitaries were scattered about but fortunately he didn't recognize any of them. He was about to move forward, when a man's voice behind him whispered, "On your six." Charles nearly jumped out of his skin and spun to face the intruder.

The man was plainly dressed, with dark hair, sunglasses and a clean complexion. The old hunting rifle in his hand looked well used but lovingly maintained. "Holy crap man! Don't sneak up on me like that!" Charles pointed the barrel of his rifle towards the ground as the stranger held up his hands.

"Sorry, we haven't exactly gotten properly introduced. The name's Deacon, I'm a friend of Blackwood's? He probably didn't mention me during your little powwow." The man waved a hand casually, "Not important."

The pair ducked as a barrage of laser fire from some oncoming gen one synths sprayed their position, dropping a man in an armored coat who'd stumbled in behind them. "What the hell are these synths doing with these psychopaths?" Charles muttered, pulling the pin on a frag grenade and pitching it towards the advancing automatons.

Deacon popped up and fired a quick shot that killed an advancing raider before watching the trio of synths burst in the grenade's explosion. "Don't know, revenge would be my guess but I'd not waste time asking right now. Instead I need your help, right this second. You up for it?"

With no real chain of command available Charles didn't see why not, "Sure," he shrugged his shoulders, "What'd you need?" A few bullets whizzed overhead, slamming against the wall of the Red Rocket and snowing flakes of concrete onto the two men. He returned fire promptly, sending a burst of 5.56 rounds in the general direction of the attack without any certainty he'd hit his target.

"See the garage of that Red Rocket?" Deacon asked, pointing down the massive structure at the center of New Sanctuary. When Charles' gaze followed the direction of his pointing the man continued, "My partner, Glory by name, took her big ol' minigun into that building, something about setting up a killing field or something. Anyways, she's pinned in there and I reckon the General could use one more big gun on his line."

Charles had to agree. Blackwood was holding valiantly against the oncoming hoard, his thin line of Wastelanders, Minutemen and Brotherhood seeming to do well enough against the raiders, but more could be used because another wave was coming in and the situation was definitively not under control.

"Alright," loosening Wild Bill's sidearm in its holster and his trench knife in its scabbard before pulling his CSA cap tighter on his head, the Lone Wander stated confidently, "Let's do this!"

Deacon smiled and the pair moved out. It was both terrifying and exhilarating, for one long moment both men were exposed to enemy gunfire as laser, plasma and shell exploded all about them. Through either enemy incompetence or sheer dumb luck, both men escaped unharmed before powering past the shattered sliding door that had formerly shielded this particular Red Rocket garage from harm. Evidently a missile had struck the rolling steel barrier directly, with obvious results.

The inside wasn't in much better condition, the tables overturned and the barrels shattered. In the back corner, ducking behind the remains of a steel bed, desperately trying to fit a new belt of ammunition into her minigun, was a tall dark woman, her grey hair cut in a side-sweep, features holding no hint of nervousness. The floor was littered with the bodies of brightly colored raiders in animal masks, while several armored figures that Charles recognized as Talon Company mercs approached the woman, shotguns and assault rifles trained on her.

"Hey, dickwads," the Lone Wander announced, aiming at the nearest Talon man, "Watch your six." He pulled the trigger before the enemy soldier could turn, driving him into the ground, and the Talon merc beside him for good measure. The third was halfway around before the bullet from Deacon's hunting rifle took him in the neck, severing every artery within and spraying blood like a fountain. The forth, and final man, fell as fire from Deacon and Charles combined punched through his combat armor and flesh.

"I could've taken them," Glory announced from her position behind the bed, finally locking the belt into place.

"Not saying you couldn't," Deacon responded, fitting a fresh clip into his hunting rifle, "But it's nice to have friends."

"Suppose that's well enough," she responded, not seeming unhappy to see the man in the sunglasses. The reunion was cut painfully short however as another wave of raiders, brightly colored and armed to the teeth burst into the garage.

Gritting his teeth, Charles turned his weapon on the newcomers, ready for another bloodbath. The day was far from over.

* * *

The world around him faded away into the background, it was nothing, a blur, a dream, a shadow on the wall. To look about would mean death, a knife in the gut, a laser round to the face, death in many forms.

The sword and revolver had been put away in the lull, his combat rifle was all that stood between himself and that death, bayonet dripping with the blood of some raider or another. His shoulder dulled beneath the constant firing of his weapon, his muscles aching from constant movements and untreated wounds. To his left, Fawkes was pouring fire from his gattling laser into the advancing Gunners, to the right Strong held vigil, beating back anyone who drew near. Curie had managed to drag Preston out of harms way, moving him back towards Sanctuary Hills' medical center with the aid of Nick Valentine. Danse and Duke Colder had rallied the Minutemen, Wasteland, Brotherhood and Railroad forces, forming a wall of flesh that held back the raiders through sheer force of will.

Yet they were not alone, as pockets of resistance fought around them, buying time for civilians to flee towards Abernathy Farm or the security of Sanctuary Hills. He'd lost sight of Cait and could only pray that God and her skill in battle preserved her. Aside from the constant concern for his girlfriend's wellbeing one dominate thought echoed throughout his mind, refusing to let go.

 _Where is that damn artillery?_

Whatever energy burst had knocked out the turrets and power wouldn't have affected the mighty gun peering out from the walls of Sanctuary Hills and Sergeant Colder had managed to pop a few smoke grenades far enough forward for the artillery to effectively hammer the continuing hoard of raiders, yet the gun was silent.

However, he wasn't able to focus on that troubling reality for too long because the raiders were making their last big push on the tattered line of defense. Synth soldiers in filthy armor opened fire while a tall, pale man in a dark coat rushed Alexander at inhuman speed. There was no doubt about it, that man was a Courser, though not one he recognized.

An electro shock baton was held in each of the Courser's hands, the electric field crackling menacingly around the weapons. Alexander was unprepared, a Courser was utterly unexpected and this one ignored everything around him save the General. Before either Super Mutant could act, the gen 3 synth shoulder rushed Blackwood, breaking the line and throwing the man away from his supporters.

The pain was exquisite, made all the worse by his impact against the hard-packed ground beneath him, driving his breath away. He scrambled to his feet, only to be battered down again as two batons struck him in the back, firing thousands of volts through his body. Every cell burned as the energy ran rampant along his form, igniting the hairs on his body and nearly blacking him out. Yet before he could even collapse properly the Courser launched a vicious kick into his ribs, the speed and strength of the synth cracking bone and flipping him onto his back.

Alexander was bleeding, battered, his rifle fallen from hands, too stunned from the combined energy of the two Institute shock batons. While normally in a few minutes he might have been able to shake of the coursing energy and fight back, but a few minutes were something he didn't have.

The Courser loomed over him like a reaper, weapon in each hand, sneering at the fallen, squirming form in the dirt before him, the famed General Alexander Blackwood, coat marred with blood and dirt, hat gone, armor cracked, laying on his back like a trapped turtle. "Well," the Courser stated clinically in the robotic tone so common for those in his profession, "I honestly expected far better." Raising both batons over head, ready to cave in the General's skull, the Courser spoke again, "Any final words, for posterity."

Alexander was in too much pain to think of something particularly pithy, fortunately he didn't have too. There was a booming noise echoing out of the barrels of a shotgun, the sound close enough it almost deafened the still stunned general.

The Courser winced once, blood pouring outward from his back, and then collapsed. Standing proudly over top of the body, smoke drifting from the barrels of his shotgun was Abraham Finch. "Looks like I saved you for once," he said with a chuckle, bending low and offering his hand to Blackwood.

"Looks like," the General responded with a wheezing cough. Unfortunately he couldn't be bothered to take Finch's hand because he was too busy passing out.

* * *

Cait found herself almost entirely alone, with nothing but a few green Minutemen recruits…and Hancock. The Mayor of Goodneghbour was a whirlwind, fighting off raiders and Synths with knife and sawed-off, shooting down anyone who drew near and stabbing those who remained, and he was smiling through it all.

"You enjoying yourself, Hancock?" The brawler asked, bashing a raider wearing a Brahmin hide helmet directly in the face with her slugger, the tan wood staining red with fresh blood. Her shotgun had long since run dry, she hadn't exactly packed enough slugs for a firefight of this sustained fury. The bat did the job well enough and, if she were completely honest with herself, she was enjoying the more personal nature of the violence far better.

She was no housewife, no farmer. She was a killer, a brawler, a woman who wasn't afraid of getting her hands dirty and she'd been unable to really cut loose over these past few months, until now. Hancock understood the need, the thrill of battle, perhaps more than anyone he understood the rush.

"Yeah, yeah I am." He smiled again, loading two more shells into his sawed-off, snapping the weapon shut decisively. The three surviving Minutemen cranked their laser muskets, ensuring each was ready with a shot. There was a lull in the action, a brief moment of silence inside the insanity happening around them.

"Well keep it up, because Alexander's going to need our help with this. You know how he is." She stated without hesitation, picking up her empty shotgun and slinging over her back. Patting the sturdy wood of her bat against her empty hand, leaving a bit of raider blood behind on her palm, she finished the thought, "He's a sweet man and I love him but without us I doubt he'd make through the day."

The ghoul laughed, "You got that right!" He turned to the Minutemen troops and waved them forward, "Let's roll out boys, we've got a battle to win!"

But they never made it.

Bursting from the brush around them was a team of raiders, and a tall, dark man that Cait recognized as an Institute Courser. The lead raider, a man with a warrior stripe and eyepatch, raised his automatic rifle, opening fire on the gathered Minutemen. Instantly one of her boys went down, riddled with holes and bleeding. The others returned fire, their laser beams cutting through the air. One missed utterly but the other hit an armored raider beside the eye patched man, disintegrating her instantly.

The Courser moved forward, firing an Institute laser pistol one-handed towards the Minutemen, killing another, before rushing Cait with all inhuman speed. She pivoted on her heel, swinging the bat towards the Courser with all the strength in her frame. It was a hit that could have knocked the head clean off a raider, with enough speed to easily land it on a normal man. Pity a Courser is no normal man.

He dodged the blow, smashing the Irishwoman across the face with the butt of his pistol. Shrugging off the powerful blow, Cait moved to strike him again, swinging the bat for his legs. The synth jumped the attack, punching her across the face with his open hand, driving the brawler back a few steps. She'd taken blows before and shook that one off like so many others, yet killing Cait wasn't the Courser's goal. A stinging pain ran through her neck as a small needle was jammed into her flesh.

Her body grew numb, the world around her began to fade as her vision blurred. At one time she could have resisted such a drug, shaking it off like so many Chems, but after Vault 95 and the experimental detoxification she'd stayed the hell away from them. Her considerable immune system fought the tranquilizer as well as it could, but in the end it mattered little. Darkness overtook her…

* * *

Gage lowered his weapon, watching dispassionately as the ghoul collapsed, several new bullet holes in his body, joining the Minutemen troopers who'd already eaten his first clip.

The attack had gone off without a hitch, as if X6-88 had held some kind of secret insight from the rest of them, because the Courser personally led his small unit to the little band of Minutemen loyalists, all to take Cait hostage.

"Is that her?" The raider asked, wanted to ensure this mission had gone according to plan. The sounds of battle were growing fainter, suggesting the Minutemen and Brotherhood forces were either falling quicker than expected or their assault had failed. The latter seemed far more likely to Porter Gage, considering what he'd seen of the initial assault.

"This is her, Cait, the General's lover." X6-88 announced coldly after a moment of analysis. Slinging the cage fighter over his shoulder as if she were no heavier than a mutifruit, the Courser waved for them to follow, "Let's leave before we attract unwanted attention. It's up to our friend in the suit now…"

Gage shuddered at any mention of the mysterious benefactor, his eye glancing about as if the words had summoned him. But he was a good soldier and disappeared into the forest with X6-88 and Cait, leaving nothing behind but footprints and shell casings…

* * *

 _On this day Alexander wrote nothing._

* * *

 **AN: The fates of many lives hang in the balance! Hold on because our battle is not done. Next time, Sanctuary Hills. I also have received some messages and reviews concerned about my treatment of the BOS. Don't worry, I am pro BOS and this story will reflect that, but things are not always what the seem. Thanks all for reviews and support. :)  
**


	9. MIA

_It's time to go! How exciting! I do so love it when the heads start rolling._

* * *

Pickman was a man of infinite patience and so, crouched down in the bushes stripped down to nothing but his undergarments, he waited. He could have waited forever, basking in the grace of the Dark Gods, the sacred Kremvh's Tooth held in his hands. He was as unmoving as one of his gruesome still lifes, as frozen as a statute, as empty as a painting.

Then he heard the echoing boom of the rocket launchers and felt the EMP pulse pass right through him, silencing the gentle hum of turrets and generators as it passed by. Despite the temptation to rush towards the hole he'd cut into the scrap metal wall all those days ago and get the job done he waited. He counted in the back of his mind to two minutes and then, silent as a shadow, crept across the brush towards Sanctuary's wall.

They'd put up some replacement metal, Pickman would have been extraordinarily disappointed if they hadn't but, judging from how it had been placed, they'd kept it attached to the wall with little more than glue and duct tape, rather than properly welded to restore full integrity to the wall. It was a mistake that would cost the Minutemen dearly.

With a swift front kick the Artist snapped his foot towards the replacement sheet, knocking it to the ground with an echoing clang. As Pickman had observed from his place on the transmission tower, the Minutemen militiaman who'd been standing guard by the hole had been looking towards New Sanctuary, struggling to decide whether he should rush towards the fire and his general or if he should stay and guard the opening. The sudden crash of metal behind him gave the young man a start, leading him to spin around and face the opening in the wall and the man scuttling through it.

Pickman was lightening fast, a killer without remorse or hesitation and armed with an ancient, mystical weapon. The fresh faced youth didn't have a chance. With one vicious stab, Pickman drove Kremvh's Tooth through the militiaman's knee, the weapon's poison flowing through the young man's veins, sapping his energy and paralyzing him. Even as the man fell to the ground, Pickman dragged him back through the gap into the brush.

Yanking the blade free, Pickman slit the man's throat in a spray of blood. Before the light had faded from his eyes the Artist was already stripping the man of his coat and boots. In mere moments his disguise would be completed and he could move about his business unbothered. He'd planed for this moment a very long time, he wasn't about to muck it up.

* * *

Commander Davidson, leader of the Talon Company mercenaries within this sector was ready for action, ready to go. His tri-beam laser rifle was fully charged and loaded, his armor cleaned, helmet locked in place. The waiting was figuratively killing him and all he wanted was to get stuck in and start literal killing others. His men were behind him, a full unit strong of battle-hardened Talon Company killers ready to get stuck in and make the town of Sanctuary Hills burn.

When the EMP burst hit, and the turrets along the walls and bridge shut down in an instant, Davidson smiled. "Alright boys," he announced, turning back around to face his team of hardened mercenaries, "Let's pillage this bitch!" The men cheered, raising assault rifles, shotguns and laser rifles above their heads before leaping up from the surrounding woods and rushing towards the wooden bridge that lead into the heart of the United Commonwealth.

A trader with a pipe pistol and straw hat stuck his head up over the bridge, dashing towards the nearest turret in an attempt to figure out what had shut down the primary defenses for his home. Davidson aimed and fired, blowing a hole in the trader and dropping him to the river below. The Talon men rushed forward, crossing the bridge with murderous intent. To his left was a massive artillery piece, manned by a solitary woman in a Minutemen uniform, desperately seeking a target for her weapon. Without hesitation, Davidson shot her, dropping the gunner in a heap, leaving the big gun unmanned.

Two of his men, both armed with flamers, moved forward, setting fire to the wooden roadside stands alongside the main road and the larger, pre-war house closest to the bridge that had been restored by the citizens of Sanctuary Hills.

Another Minuteman, dressed in his militia uniform, rushed towards the fire, followed closely by two farmers, each of whom carried a bucket full of water. Not a solitary figure in sight carried a weapon, save the Talon Company, who didn't much care for a fair fight besides.

Within moments the three would-be firefights lay dead in the streets, and the men of Talon moved forward. The battle was going well, if it could even be called that. With most of the Commonwealth troops out fighting by the Red Rocket, there was precious few to defend the capital from the well trained squad of killer mercenaries.

Yet unbeknown to Davidson, there was someone remaining who knew his stuff. Someone who'd gotten back into his usual perch in the church bell tower without being noticed and announced himself with the crack of his rifle and a bullet planted firmly in the forehead of one of the unhelmeted Talon Company mercs.

Davidson dropped to his knee, scanning about for any sign of the sniper who'd so casually dispatched one of his highly trained men. He didn't get a glimpse before a second shot rang out, taking one of his flamer soldiers directly in the exposed fuel tank, exploding the mercenary in a burst of flame and fury that Davidson felt despite being meters away.

He kept looking for the sniper, trying to find him and bring the considerable firepower he'd brought along with him. It wouldn't take long…

* * *

Robert Joseph MacCready wasn't used to being a one man army. Sure, he'd had his fair share of fights where he'd been outnumbered. There'd been fights where it was just him, Dogmeat and Alexander, yet despite that limited force MacCready had never felt outnumbered, not like he did at this moment.

His perch on the bell tower was perilous yet absolutely necessary for stopping the Talon Company mercenary team that was tearing Sanctuary Hills to pieces. Still, these trained mercenaries would find him; it was a matter of when, not if.

Raising his rifle, pulling back on the bolt and ejecting the spent casing, dropping a new bullet into place, he gazed through the scope for a new target. His eyes fell on a merc, female, carrying a combat shotgun and, most importantly, not wearing a helmet. The crosshairs settled over her face, his breathing slowed and he squeezed the trigger. The butt of his rifle kicked back against his shoulder as the bullet struck his target, spraying a fine mist of blood.

He was already reloading, moving the scope towards a new target, ejecting the spent round and preparing to fire again. If he could just whittle down the enemy squad before they noticed he was there he might have a fighting chance. But he'd only dropped three and there was at least a dozen still standing…

Then, one of them turned and the eyes of the merc met MacCready's own even across all the distance and height. Even as the Talon man was pointing MacCready shot him, dropping his forth enemy of the battle. Yet the damage was already done and one of the mercenaries was aiming a missile launcher towards the bell tower. Knowing he'd never be able to shoot down the merc before the rocket struck, MacCready dropped back and, slinging the rifle over his shoulder, slide down the ladder away from the tower.

He narrowly avoided the ensuing fireball that shattered the bell and knocked the steeple from the top of the church, crumbling to the pavement below. The sniper found himself in the sanctuary of the building, nothing but pews and a pulpit, along with a few old shelves of wine and books for company. The front door was closed and barred, by him, but it'd be mere moments before they battered it down or simply set fire to the church, therefore he had one option, the back window.

MacCready turned to face the simple glass window behind the pulpit, which wasn't all that wide but it was the only choice he had. Keeping his weapon slung across his shoulder, Robert breathed in a few time then took a running start, powering towards the window. Leaping forward and holding his arms before his face, the ex-gunner breathed out and smashed through the glass. Somehow he managed to avoid getting stuck in the frame, though not getting slashed by the tiny shards that embedded themselves in his forearms.

A rolling landing broke his fall and a quick motion restored the rifle to his hands. A snap of the wrist ejected the spent cartridge into the air, dropping a new one into place. The sounds of rushing feet coming his way suggested at least some of the Talon Company Mercenaries had heard the glass shatter and were moving to ensure the sniper didn't get away. Without really looking MacCready fired twice towards the enemy units, not sure if he hit anything but enough to drive them back long enough for him to scamper away from the killing field and take cover behind the church's back corner. A barrage of laser fire grazed past his shoulder, singeing the fabric of his coat and burning his neck but fortunately not doing any permanent damage.

His clip had run dry and it couldn't have come at a worse time. The Talon Company trio was continuing to pour fire down the wall, trying to keep MacCready's head down, if nothing else. The former Gunner knew it was a matter of time before one of them sent a grenade and so did his best to get a fresh clip in place. Unfortunately in his haste he jammed the rifle far beyond his ability to fix, certainly in that moment. Dropping the rifle and drawing the holstered 10 millimeter at his waist MacCready fired the pistol blindly towards the sound of the enemy fire, without any notable impact. The clip ran dry and the mercenary drew the weapon back, reloading it with slightly more care than he did the rifle but hesitant to fire after the jam.

The shooting between him and the Talon boys had drawn to a close, at least in that specific area, but both groups knew it was only a matter of time before they bum rushed him and took him down with their superior numbers. Without backup, cover or firepower he wasn't going to survive the encounter and so had to move.

He breathed in, out and made a dash for it, hopping over the picket fence and continuing towards Bob's Place, knowing between the tables and the Protectron himself there was a fighting chance against the invading Talon Company forces. The fence exploded into shards of wood and splinters as small arms fire was poured towards him. Miraculously he escaped unharmed and powered on towards the large tree that took up the center of the old roundabout. He noticed a Minuteman trooper rushing by with his laser musket fully charged, heading down towards the fight. Before MacCready could call out for help, several more Talon troops followed through the smoldering remains of the picket fence, sending rounds of laser fire his way.

The sniper twisted and fired the handgun back towards the mercenaries, striking one in the chest and at least knocking him over and, if MacCready was lucky, killing him. Regardless, the sniper continued his run for the pub, praying to whatever deity watched over the wasteland that he'd make it out of this in one piece.

* * *

Pickman grinned as Blackwood's sniper friend almost made contact with him but failed to do so. The disguise worked, at least from a distance. He didn't have to stay undercover much longer, just long enough to get what he came for without arousing suspicion and if his cover was blown…well, he wasn't exactly opposed to adding a few bodies onto his tally.

The Talon Company men that Littlehorn had provided were doing their job admirably. The town was in shambles, bodies lining the streets as the killers made short work of the citizens who'd remained behind and the few troops who were there to defend them. Yet he wasn't there to kill, he wasn't there for mayhem, it was all a cover because he was there for a key.

The House of Tomorrow, the residence of Alexander Blackwood, Cait and his son Shaun, loomed in the distance, the target of his advances. He'd scouted the place at bit under the cover of Stealth Boy and so knew the best route to get there, yet the circumstances of the town were somewhat different considering it was under siege. For instance, and most pertinent to the situation, was the trio of Minutemen troopers who were attempting to form a firing line near the front of the general's house. It wasn't that there was a standing order to protect Blackwood's property but the old pre-war United States of America flag flying in his front lawn made a perfect rallying point for the scattered troops.

Unfortunately there was no way Pickman would get through the door without one of those troopers noticing him so he had to act first. Aiming his laser musket the Artist fired, striking one of the Minutemen in the neck and knocking his head off his torso. As the other two spun to see who was attacking them Pickman was already rushing in, the jagged Kremvh's Tooth gleaming in his hand.

A vicious chopping strike opened the throat of the Minuteman on the left, followed by a quick downward riposte splitting the chest of the one on the right. Without checking to see if the blade had killed the second man, knowing that the poison of the deadly artifact would finish off any temporary glimmer of life, Pickman bent over and picked up a fallen laser musket, cranking it once to ensure the weapon was charged.

Taking the loaded laser musket, he aimed it at the doorknob. While admittedly he could have picked the lock given time, considering the nature of the battle around him and the swiftness of his mission he really didn't have that time. A quick burst of laser fire atomized the doorknob, leaving a gaping hole in the wood where the brass had been. Applying his foot to the door, Pickman went into the unprotected house.

It was an orderly building, a clean kitchen, living room and floor. Despite the age of everything within the building it was lovingly maintained, with a couch of Brahmin hide, a radio player and working cooking stove seemingly cobbled together from the various post-war objects, mended with the dedicated hands of Blackwood.

Various trophies and pre-war relics took their places along walls and shelves, yet, despite all the wondrous things that would have been worth a small fortune if Pickman plundered the building, he ignored them and carried on down the hallway. He was looking for something very specific, something worth far more than the value of everything in the house put together.

The master bedroom was cluttered, with comic book racks, posters and various family photos and relics occupying every nook and cranny. Yet, once again, all those things he ignored, because Pickman was on a mission. The red tool box was kicked beneath the wardrobe, almost forgotten by the world and its owner. And yet not by Pickman.

The lock was sturdy but no match for the bite of the Tooth. The aluminum made security device wasn't cheap but it mattered little. The battered red box now unlocked, its contents ready to be exposed to the Artist. Pickman flipped the lid open, rummaging through its contents. There was a large, evil-looking, 44 magnum, unloaded and tucked away. There were several keys, yet not the one he was looking for. A homing beacon, still glowing brightly took up plenty of space within the box. Pickman smiled when his eyes fell upon the old darkened combat knife and bloodstained note that he'd given the General, all those many months ago after his life had been unknowingly saved by that man and his Synth detective.

 _Good to see he hasn't forgotten me._

Even with the pleasant memory of the older times, Pickman was there for a reason, a reason he'd finally uncovered. The old key was taped to the keycard, both were needed to get what he wanted, what he needed to further spin the world the way it must be, to restore the balance.

Taking the key and card, the Artist closed the toolbox and returned it to its place under the bed, now it was just a matter of leaving…

* * *

"James! Get away from the window!" The old lady who was watching the trio of children shouted, waving for Charles' oldest son to join Theo and Victoria in the room farthest from the outside.

"I want to see what's happening!" He shouted back, continuing to strain his eyes and stand on the tips of his toes as he pressed his face against the glass. The dulled sounds of gunfire and laser bursts still reached the young Wastelander, only further heightening James' curiosity. While younger Theo and Victoria were both suitably terrified and hanging back with Mama Murphy, James had inherited his mother's fearless curiosity and wanted to see the battle for himself.

Uncle Fawkes had told him about the Talon Company, he'd said that he and dad had beat them at every turn. Yet Fawkes also wanted to make perfectly clear that the Talon Company hadn't been defeated, not when they had holdings all across old America. His dad warned them, and mom had as well, that these men and women were heartless murderers who wouldn't hesitate to kill children. And yet, despite all those warnings, James had never seen a battle, he'd never seen anyone fire a weapon at another person and he'd never been trained on anything beyond his BB gun. The intoxicating display of gunfire and explosions drew the curious boy like a moth to the flame.

Unfortunately for all involved, one of the mercs was separating from the rest of the group, looking around with ruthless determination for something to kill, loot or set ablaze and his eyes fell upon the young boy in the window. James dropped beneath the window, pressing himself against the sheet metal wall and halting his breathing in an attempt to hide from the wandering eyes of the Talon Company man.

Pity it wasn't a quick enough reaction. The boot struck the door and caved it in, sending splinters of wood and metal in all directions. James shrieked and covered his face with his hands, gazing out through his fingers despite very real fear. Victoria started crying from the other room, Theo sat frozen, Mama Murphy couldn't even draw breath.

The Talon Company merc was bigger than any man James had ever seen, towering over him, face covered in tattoos and scars, muscles almost as big as Uncle Fawkes', wearing an evil grin as he aimed his assault rifle towards the child.

James, for his part, was transfixed, his mind oddly free of fear and every other emotion. The only conscious thought that ran rampant through his young psyche was simply, "I hope it doesn't hurt."

A single shot rang out, all the louder for the solitary nature of the bullet in a battle of lasers and automatics. The giant man slumped, armor clattering sharply against the stone floor, James jumping with panic between the two sounds. After a moment, a new figure entered, an old, bearded man in a peacoat carrying a lever-action rifle with a snubbed barrel, smoke gently wafting up from the weapon.

James didn't recognize him, but Mama Murphy did, and immediately shouted out joyfully, "Longfellow! Thank goodness you came!" James could only nod until his head felt like it was going to fly away and yet he couldn't move, he felt frozen, stuck in place by an unknown force.

Victoria continued wailing, Theo sucked his thumb nervously, rocking back and forth, eyes closed. Yet Old Longfellow didn't seem entirely interested in ensuring the kids were okay, simply that they weren't dead. His slate colored eyes glanced about the room, a growing level of concern evident on his weathered face. "Where the hell is the General's kid?" Mama Murphy looked blankly at him, "Where the hell is Shaun?"

James pointed towards the door, his small hand shaking, "He never came in…"

"Damn it all to hell!" Longfellow cursed, turning and running out the door in a flash of coattails and smoke. James sat frozen, staring at the body and the open door until Mama Murphy gathered the kids up and took them to another room.

* * *

Shaun had tried to get to the safe house, he really had, but the unexpected attack of the armored men had separated him from that place. He'd been on the other side of Sanctuary Hills, picking corn and checking on the Brahmin, just exploring and goofing around to escape the boredom. The other kids, the one from the Capital Wasteland, weren't really up to his level, they didn't share his ideas, his talents, at least he didn't think so.

He'd been outside, just goofing off, playing with Dogmeat and trying to sneak a few lemons from one of the numerous trees that his father was growing when the EMP burst washed over him and the dog. His whole body had tingled and his hair stood on end while the dog howled in fear. The strange feeling ended as soon as it had come but it left the boy shaken and Dogmeat hiding beneath a trough.

He'd been moving, pocket's full of lemons towards the safety of the kid's shelter when the bad men came streaming over the bridge. He took one long look and ran away from the main road, moving back towards the tent city where the workers were temporarily housed as they further built up the Minutemen capital.

Shaun's eyes dashed about as he tried to find someplace, anyplace, where he could hide. A few steamer trunks next to the camping beds seemed like the best option. Unfortunately before he could jimmy open a padlock he heard a harsh voice snarl, "It's the General's kid! Get 'em!"

Shaun glanced over his shoulder and noticed two Talon Company mercenaries, towering over him, tri-beam laser rifles aimed at the young boy. He began backing up slowly, one foot behind the other even as the mercs advanced, eyes narrowing on the child.

Shaun gulped in the air around him and squeezed his eyes shut. He prayed to God, like his dad taught him, that it wouldn't hurt too badly. But then he heard the deafening roar, seeming to echo around him. His eyes snapped open and he saw Cuddles the Yao-guai he'd thought of as his pet towering on his hind legs, fangs barred, claws extended.

The leftmost Talon man snapped towards the monstrous bear, aiming his rifle and getting out a hasty "oh shit!" before the mutated creature slammed into him at full speed. The Yao-guai clamped his teeth down around the man's neck, severing the head from the body in a spray of blood and crunch of bone.

Tossing the headless corpse aside, Cuddles swiped out with a massive forepaw, batting the armored mercenary aside. The Talon man smashed through the wall of a shack, shattering sheet metal and wooden planks. Cuddles, head shaking triumphantly, roared over the shattered corpse at his feet, blood dripping from his open maw.

Shaun was shaking, his whole body trembling in terror after the attack. And yet, in the back of his mind, there was a flame of pride burning bright. He recognized an electro magnetic pulse when he felt one and knew the Beta Wave Emitter had to have been knocked out by the burst. It made logical sense, the turrets were fried and the lights were down. Yet, despite it all, Cuddles had protected him, he'd fought off the Talon Company men and was standing down. The boy was about to run towards his animal friend when another team of Talon Company mercenaries came around the bend, drawn in by the noise.

The leader of the pack, a short stocky man with a flattop haircut was carrying a quad-barrel rocket launcher over his shoulder, while the man behind him was sporting a flamer and the others he could see sported a mixture of Chinese Assault rifles, combat shotguns and laser rifles.

The man with the flamer pointed towards Cuddles and shouted, "Guai! Tag, take that bastard out!" Before Shaun could act the short man dropped to his knee and aimed the rocket launcher at the mutant bear. He pulled the trigger twice, sending both missiles towards the boy's four-legged guardian. Cuddles didn't even squawk as the rockets impacted his body. The Yao-guai flopped over to the side, moaning gently under his breath as the blood leaked out.

Shaun couldn't hold back his scream, falling back against the nearest trunk, slamming his back against it. Pain shot through his small body as the metal met skin, yet even that was nothing compared to the overwhelming fear.

One of the Talon mercs, a dark-skinned man with a black helmet approached him, drawing a small pistol from his belt. Before Shaun could squirm away the man shot him. It took the boy a moment to realize that he'd been hit with a tranquilizer dart. He tried to fight it, the overwhelming darkness closing in around him…

* * *

Old Longfellow had had plenty of bad days over the course of his life. The death of his fiancé and baby, the day he got lost in the Fog on Point Lookout, the counter attack on the Slog after a particularly daring assault on a raider camp. Yet he could already tell this day was going to make the list.

Then he heard Shaun's scream. It was piercing siren that cut through the crackling fires, the laser and bullet fire and the cries of dying men and women. Without hesitation, the old tracker took up Henrietta, his lever-action rifle, and jogged in the direction of the sound.

 _Come on old man! Move your wrinkled ass!_

He stepped over fallen rubble, sidestepped a burning lemon tree and avoided a Minutemen militiaman rolling around on the ground, clutching the bleeding stump of his leg. A lone Talon Company mercenary was moving towards a house, her Chinese Assault rifle aimed towards the open doorway.

Longfellow didn't even slow down, he simply took aim with Henrietta and fired from the hip. His hand hammered down on the lever, finger pulling the trigger and spitting out lead as he moved. While he missed a few shots most of them punched into the woman, drilling holes through her in different parts of her body. She fell back onto the ground as the rifle went dry.

Old Longfellow kept his pace, feeding loose bullets into the weapon while running. Feeling the comforting click of the weapon fully loaded, he fired again towards another mercenary who'd made the mistake of sticking his head out of a doorway at the wrong moment. Stepping over the now perforated Talon man, Longfellow kept going towards the tent city where the scream had come from. As he moved passed Bob's Place he noticed a familiar face in the window, pistol aimed.

"MacCready!" Old Longfellow snarled, waving his hand towards the former mercenary, "Follow me, I need backup!" The man inside swore violently but followed despite his obvious misgivings. The 10 millimeter was clutched in his hand and clearly used, "Where the hell's your rifle gone?" Longfellow couldn't hide his surprise at the missing weapon.

"I jammed it up," MacCready spat, "Damn Talon guys screwed me." He gestured with his handgun, "This is serving me well enough."

"Well stay close," Longfellow ordered, "We're going after the General's kid."

"He in trouble?" The ex-Gunner asked following the tracker closely, double-checking the clip in his pistol.

"Seems it." That was all the dialog the men exchanged as they moved towards the tent city. The sight that met their eyes wasn't pretty. One of the two Minutemen Yao-guai was fallen to the side, panting and dying. A merc with a flamer was moving through the corn field, spraying fire towards the plants. The air smelled of propane and burning corn but that wasn't the most disturbing part of what the two men saw. The northern wall had a massive, jagged hole blasted clean through it, likely with a high explosive and, judging by the absence of Shaun or any guards, the Minutemen had utterly lost control of this portion of Sanctuary Hills. Yet it didn't seem like the Talon Company men had any real intentions of holding down the position as there were no sandbags, portable barriers or other such obstructions.

There was about half a dozen men in armor, carrying a variety of high powered weapons, particularly impressive when compared to the two men facing them. There was a brief pause, as eyes on both sides met the other, suddenly realizing that they were no longer alone.

MacCready moved first, firing his 10 millimeter wildly towards the flamer-trooper and, thankfully, finding some luck. One of the bullets penetrated the tank of fuel on the man's back and the ensuing fireball, while it certainly did nothing to halt the spread of fire throughout the field it did prevent that mercenary from hosing Longfellow down.

The old tracker took careful aim and fired once, the bullet from Henrietta punching clean through the skull of a trooper carrying a Chinese Assault rifle. Before that man's body had hit the pavement the other four were pouring laser fire and shotgun rounds towards the pair of attackers. Old Longfellow rolled off to the side, scraping up his shoulder on the pavement but avoiding atomization, MacCready simply dropped to the ground, returning fire with his handgun as best he could.

The four Talon Company mercs moved forward from cover to cover continuing to keep the men pinned down and prevent any really resistance. MacCready shuffled off to the side of the walk, narrowly avoiding a shotgun shell that cracked the concrete beside him. Old Longfellow shimmied up beside the corner of a nearby house, putting a few rounds towards the enemy. None of those shots connected with anything and the foursome continued to threaten the duo.

Knowing that it was only a matter of time before one of those laser bolts or bullets got lucky, Old Longfellow hatched a desperate plan. Reaching into his bulky old coat he pulled out the half-finished bottle of rum he'd tucked away and forgotten about while simultaneously pulling the ratty scarf from his neck. Pouring enough rum over the scarf to dampen it, the tracker shoved his neck cloth into the neck. Taking his lighter, Longfellow ignited the cloth.

"Fire in the hole!" He hollered, flinging the bottle towards the nearest Talon man. That mercenary panicked, dashing away from the fireball caused by the exploding alcohol. MacCready was ready firing the last bullets of his 10 millimeter towards the shifting man. The Talon Merc collapsed, bleeding from a bullet that slipped beneath the man's chest plate and ruptured the flesh.

The tracker snatched up his lever-action rifle and fired again, the solitary bullet punching through the neck of the farthest mercenary. The man fell gargling as the other two men were suddenly struck by a burst of automatic laser fire from an unknown source. Old Longfellow turned suddenly to see the source of the unexplained support and, rolling down the street both "hands" open, was Roger the Robobrain. The robot's brain jar glowed determinedly as he rolled forward scanning for other signs of enemy forces. After a moment and, determining through the power of his scanners that there was no remain hostiles in the area, the Robobrain approached the duo.

"The situation is now under control." He rumbled out in his electronic voice, "There was an attack on the conference; many are dead, many more wounded or missing." As if that news were not bad enough the robot continued in that flat monotone continuing to make things worse, "The General is unconscious and Colonel Gravey is badly wounded. Colonel Danse is now in command."

"Alexander's son is gone, somebody grabbed him," Longfellow muttered sadly, "I'm going after him, see what I can find. MacCready, you stay here, report to the tin can what we've found and get this shit locked down." Without another word, the old tracker ducked out through the hole in the wall and headed out into the wilderness after the missing boy.

 _Feel like I've done this before._

* * *

 _On this Day Alexander Blackwood wrote in his journal._

 _"Everything's gone to shit."_

* * *

 **AN: Longfellow is probably the most underappreciated companion in my opinion and writing him has always been a joy. Next time, the aftermath! Stay tuned.  
**


	10. Aftermath

_I remember the first time I let someone get away, that time I let one of those who'd fallen into my trap escape. The raider scrambled away in sheer terror at the sight of what I'd done to his bloodthirsty cohorts. He spread that fear around the campfires and the legend was born. I learned that day that sometimes the aftermath of an event is more powerful than the event itself._

* * *

There was shooting pain all over his body, lines of agony running along every limb _,_ across every inch of flesh. His eyes finally opened, slowly, like a ponderous vault door, the light stinging in its intensity. His head throbbed, the bright lights and low hum of equipment adding to the impact of his headache.

He was in the medical ward, seemingly untouched by the chaos around Sanctuary Hills in light of the attack. The hiss of the decontamination arch by the door suggested someone new was entering, body scrubbed free of harmful radiation. The sharp, french, voice of Dr Curie cut through the haze of pain, "Colonel! The General is not to be disturbed! We are overworked as it is and we cannot have trouble in here!" There was a foot stamping, likely Curie herself physically putting her foot down in an attempt to establish dominance over her domain.

"The General needs to be informed over everything, as soon as possible. He needs to know, he needs to know now." Danse's voice was firm but not raised, with that underlying layer of tenderness that he always had when speaking to or about Curie.

"Curie," Alexander croaked out from the bed, feeling pins along the back of his throat, the words passing through cracked lips with the greatest effort. "Curie, let Danse speak. I won't break."

There was a silence for a moment, broken only by the hum of a generator and the buzz of the lightbulbs before Curie snapped, "Well don't touch him! I'm going to check on my other patients, every bed is full!"

 _Every bed is full. Damn it…_

The plastic strips separating the small room from the rest of the hospital parted as Colonel Danse stooped slightly, entering with grim stoicism across his feature and a plastic bottle of water in hand. His face was covered in dried blood and grime, his uniform tattered. "Drink first please, General Blackwood, my news is not pleasant."

There was a tingling in the back of Alexander's mind that vaguely reminded him of the war and the stone-faced generals who'd been the ones breaking down the battle plans and casualty reports.

Without complaint, Alexander took the offered bottle, unscrewed the cap and put the cool liquid to his mouth. A temporary soothing washed over the rough sandpaper texture of his throat and a little bit of the headache lessened. "This is purified." The words rumbled outward without comfort but he kept from grimacing through sheer force of effort.

"We've still got some purifiers up," the synth admitted without any joy, "But we've lost about half of the industrial ones. Of those that have been damaged only a forth are vaguely repairable. Purified water is going to be rationed for a bit while we get some new water sources in."

"Is that the worst of it?" Blackwood asked, knowing full well that it wasn't.

"Most of our foodstores are gone, destroyed or looted. Whole corn fields have been burned down, along with lemon trees, chickens and tatos. Abernathy and Finch are going to have extra stores sent along with the caravans but we're going to be tightening our belts for awhile." Danse shook his head sadly, "Unfortunately we're not going to be needing as much food as we did before because our casualty numbers are not good, even considering that many non-Sanctuary citizens were here…"

Blackwood pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes, "Damn." He'd get the official reports later, "Good news? Colonel Danse is there any?"  
"Sturges got the generators back up and running and is currently working with a team to restore integrity to the walls and turrets damaged in the attack." The synth shook his head, "And we killed a greater number of attackers than they killed us, a much greater number. Elder Maxson suggests that we've broken their backs and wants to gather a team of scouts to go out after them."

"Have him hold until we're sure this isn't a feint," Alexander ordered, finishing off the bottle of water and handing it back to the Colonel. "I know there's more."

"Someone broke into your house during the chaos, shot the lock off the door. Ada is doing an inventory right now to determine exactly what was taken. In the meantime, medical reports, Preston is still clinging to life but he's in a coma. Honestly, Curie has no idea if he's going to pull through. Hancock was recovered after the battle, likewise wounded but he's absolutely going to make it." The synth Minuteman's face fell dark as if dreading what else he had to say, it was something so horrid that the normally taciturn Danse was clearly not looking forward to sharing whatever it was.

"Say it Danse, I'm not made of glass," Alexander growled, nervousness clawing at his system left and right, his fear of whatever it was that the Colonel was hiding.

"General…" there was a pause and then, after one quick breath, Danse powered through, "General, Cait and your son are missing. Hancock told us during his recovery that a synth drugged Cait and took her away. MacCready reported that Shaun was also taken though we aren't sure by whom, Old Longfellow is tracking them right now."

The shock of what had happened was almost too much for Alexander's battered faculties, darkness closed in around his eyes but he fought to stay awake, "Colonel Danse," he said, so quietly he himself almost lost the words beneath the hum of generators, "I'm not in a state to lead. I relinquish command of the Minutemen to you until such a time as I can regain control with a clear conscious."

"General…"

"Colonel. You have command, now please leave me, I need to be alone."

Danse nodded once, turned and left the building. As soon as the room was alone Alexander buried his face in his hands and began sobbing, "Dear God…it's happening again…."

* * *

"What the hell was that?" Dr Zimmer snarled, spittle flying from his leathery face as he snarled, "We threw everything we had against that council and they beat us back!"

"Careful old man!" Mason growled, hunching forward in an aggressive stance, "My boys got slaughtered for your little war! I've got the mind to split you in half right now and take what I want from your carcass!"  
The tent was full of the battered leaders of the raider attack on Sanctuary Hills, tensions were high and injuries were severe. One Courser and uncountable raiders were dead. The Rust Devils had been utterly annihilated and their spot was now notably empty. Malone was fuming but looking no worse for wear. Ayo and Zimmer seemed utterly beside themselves with shock and outrage, Davidson was MIA and the mysterious man in the suit who'd organized the whole event seemed to have vanished.

Gage had been sent back by X6-88, explaining that he'd ensure Cait ended up in a place where she'd be properly hidden and the plans could continue accordingly and so he did. Unlike the others in the tent, Porter Gage stood quietly in the corner, head bowed, eye towards the dirt, there wasn't any point in getting involved, not now.

"You'll address Doctor Zimmer with respect, Neanderthal!" Armitage responded harshly, moving in front of the smaller, frailer Institute scientist, glaring down at Mason with unblinking eyes.

The Pack Alpha growled back, "I'll take you both on! I'll break you in half and see what a synth's guts look like!" He bared his teeth, clenched his hands into fists, taking a step forward, actually looking like he was going to fight the Courser with his bare hands.

"Gentlemen!" Surprisingly it was Doctor Ayo who had shouted over the din of the two killers about to throw down and took command of the situation. "This fighting can happen later! For now the Minutemen are rallying their forces and their going to track us down, we need to fall back."

"Fall back where?" Mason snarled turning to face the younger of the two Institute Scientists, "We didn't take Sanctuary Hills."

"Salem." Zimmer's word cut through the tension like a knife and got the immediate attention of everyone, "Our friend in the suit told me about Salem, mostly abandoned by the Minutemen, local superstition and isolation being the cause of that. Commander Davidson left a few Talon Company men behind to secure Salem for this very purpose. It seems his foresight was not in vain."

Everyone stood silently for a moment, gazing across at each other, "Can we trust him?" Mason snarled, face contorted with thought, "Where the hell's our 'suited friend' anyway? No guarantee he didn't bail on us in the first place and set this whole thing up."

"He could be dead," Gage finally spoke, his tone neutral, suggesting he was free of opinion one way or another, sliding through the rapidly forming opinions of whether or not the man in the suit had betrayed them, "There's a lot of folk who ate lead in this battle that we don't know about."

"Regardless," Zimmer noted, sidestepping the issue of treason and loyalties, "We need to make a decision before our enemies rally and come for our heads."

"Well then let's split," Malone spat out, clapping his meaty hands together, "Salem's as good a place as any."

"Can't argue," Mason admitted grudgingly, "I'll gather the Pack."

"Gentlemen," Zimmer ordered, taking charge one more time, "We leave in twenty."

* * *

"Have you heard from Pickman? Did the attack go as ordered?" Blackhall asked Littlehorn determinedly, leaning heavily on his sacred staff. The chill of Vault 66 was continuing to seep into his old bones and he was beginning to feel tired. So tired. At moments like this he wished he had the Little Clown's determination and energy.

The Killer had continued going on and on about the same point he had since arrival "I thought it'd be bigger," the Doctor continued on with his experiments and Littlehorn paced. Ug-qualtoth had chosen them for a reason and he knew in that infinite wisdom why they were selected. Yet Blackhall, for the life of him, still couldn't figure out exactly what it was that the ever changing one wanted from them.

This desire for knowledge, this lack of information regarding what happened was killing him. Hence his pesting of Littlehorn.

"I haven't heard anything. Davidson hasn't gotten back to me yet."

"We'd feel it if the Minutemen and their allies were bested. Surely we'd feel it."

"I don't know." Littlehorn repeated his voice far firmer than it had initially been, "Davidson hasn't reported in."  
"I'll continue to gather the ceremonial components for the ritual then, assuming our success." Blackhall gave that statement as a deliberate jab towards the Talon Company. Charles, the Lone Wanderer, had bested them at every turn, leaving a black mark on the company's record.

"Davidson will get back to me with a full report. I can depend on him utterly."

* * *

"I still don't understand what the hell this is all about?" Davidson admitted, passing the unconscious Shaun over to X6-88. The Courser was stoic, as he was in all things, unmoving as if he didn't even notice the redheaded woman slung over his shoulder.

"Our need for Shaun is irrelevant to you, simply understand that you'll be paid a great deal more for this one service than your company was for the contract. That wealth is specifically yours, to do with as you will." Davidson, ever the mercenary, felt that those words were enough of an answer.

"Works for me." Shaking the Courser's hand, Davidson pocketed the heavy bag of caps he was passed without complaint. "Where's Pickman? You two are always tight. Did he make it?"

While X6-88's expression was hidden behind his sunglasses, his response seemed more terse than typical, "Richard Pickman has not been killed in combat, instead he is off fulfilling some further objective that has nothing to do with you." And that was the end of that.

Holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender, Davidson took a step backward, "Say no more, I get it." As the Courser turned to depart with both the boy and woman still unconscious the Talon Company officer asked, "When I report in, what do you want me to tell my boss?"

X6-88 tilted his head back to look at the other man, "The truth. The mission was partially successful. We bloodied the Commonwealth forces but took some heavy losses. They will be coming after the survivors in force once they've rallied. Be ready for another attack." He walked a few steps forward before speaking one last time without looking back, "If anyone asks, we never crossed paths during or after the battle. Understood?"

"Crystal."

With that X6-88 activated a Stealth Boy and vanished.

Davidson looked around the forest, strained his ears against the wind and then took off in the long way around back to camp. He knew by the time he'd arrive it was more than likely the rest of his allies would have abandoned the camp and fallen back to Salem. It made more sense by far to simply begin the long jog towards Salem. It'd be easier for him as a solitary figure to slip past the numerous settlements that sat scattered across the United Commonwealth.

So, taking the tri-laser in his hands, he slipped off into the forest.

* * *

Old Longfellow knelt before the pattern of footprints at that point in the forest, leaves and branches trampled underfoot and frost disrupted. He wished, pointlessly but wished never the less, that there'd been more snow, which would have made tracking stupidly easy. But wishes were useless, so the old man kept his nose to the ground and tried to make sense of what he saw.

He'd followed the tracks straight from Sanctuary Hills through the hole in the wall without fail. Numerous footsteps had led outward from the walls, suggesting a full squad of men had left and stayed together as a group. Yet that group track overpowered or crossed over several other individual tracks, leaving Longfellow conflicted about which set to follow.

The tracker stood frozen, gazing down at the mess of tracks and trying to sort them out. The massive squad had split up into several smaller groups, including a few individuals and only one of them could still have Shaun. One set particularly stood out to him, an older set of faded tracks that he'd initially missed because they'd been buried beneath the later set of multiple boots. Something about the faded tracks drew his attention, something mysterious about them, a movement more focused on secrecy than speed.

They arched off in the direction of Vault 111, separating even from the splintering of the later group. The possessor of the earlier tracks could not have had Shaun, but they wouldn't have been ahead of whoever did by much. The problem was any number of those separating tracks could have belonged to the child's kidnaper, in any number of combinations or directions. Old Longfellow knelt before the pile of differing footprints, tracing the various combinations with a gentle hand, his mind racing with possibility and concerns.

 _Damn it!_

Despite the various thoughts and attempts to wiggle free of the daunting, horrible truth rising up in his mind he knew what had to happen. He'd half to go back. Rising to his feet, the old man turned around and began the short trek back towards Sanctuary Hills.

* * *

"I have no idea what killed these guys," Nick Valentine told Sergeant Duke Colder simply, kneeling beside the three Minutemen lying dead outside the General's house.

"Laser burn around the stump suggests nothing unusual with that one," Colder stated without hesitation, tapping his combat boot against the farthest corpse, "Single shot to the neck, very accurate."

"Can't say that about those two," Nick pointed with his cigarette towards the other pair of fallen Minutemen, their skin notably paler than the other man, several jagged wounds running along their bodies. "I've never seen marks like these ones," he shook his head, synthetic face displaying some degree of disturbance. Taking a long drag from his cigarette, Nick blew the smoke away from the body before turning his gaze back towards the victims. "There's something really primal in the wounds, real vicious."

"Could it have been one of the 'guai losing control?" It was something that was worth considering but Nick instantly shook his head no.

"Both are accounted for. One was killed and the other wounded, neither attacked our own troops." He sighed, blowing smoke through his nose, "No other animals were present. Besides, these wounds are too precise to be random, animalistic attacks. They're human made for sure."

"What kinda weapon leaves this much impact on the surround tissue? It's like the flesh around the area is already several days rotten." The Minuteman knelt beside one of the men and gestured towards the gruesome chest wound that ripped the man asunder. Sure enough, the skin around the wound was already rotting away, turning black and falling into the chest cavity. "I didn't see any weapon that would do this, nothing I didn't recognize anyway."

"Look how jagged the cuts are," Valentine traced the wound with his metallic hand, still keeping that limb from actually touching the flesh. "That's what really gets me, these extra little cuts, they're almost zig-zag in pattern, but it's lacking the extra tissue damage that a Ripper would do, clearly this was one flowing cut." Flicking the cigarette away from the bodies, the synthetic detective rose to his feet, "Were they killed guarding the General's home or just unlucky to be here?"

"Judging from their placement," Colder glanced towards the bodies and then turned back towards the gently swaying door of Blackwood's home, "They were facing towards the bridge, so I'm thinking they just happened to be found in the wrong place, wrong time by whoever broke into the General's house."

"I'm following," Nick stated, "I'm following along just fine. It makes sense, whoever killed these men also made a play for the general's house." He fetched a fresh cigarette from the inside of his ratty old trenchcoat, lighting up and gazing down towards the dead men. "I really wish Ada got back with that data already. If we know exactly what's been taken we could get a little bit more to go on." He shook his head again and took a puff on the cigarette, looking forlornly towards the House of Tomorrow.

He might have stood there forever before he was approached by two individuals, Charles, the Lone Wanderer from Vault 101 and his wife Riley, both looking exhausted, battered, but relatively unharmed. Charles' hands were shaking violently, a cigarette clutched in the leftmost, Riley kept her helmet slung underarm, grease and dirt scattered across her face.

"'The hell happened to these guys that's so interesting about 'em?" Charles stated deadpan, taking a pull on his cigarette, "We've seen lots of bodies today."

"These wounds," the detective gestured towards the bodies, "Something really strange is afoot here." Charles followed the synth's gaze down towards the corpses and his expression suddenly changed.

"Are you alright, Chuck?" Riley asked her husband concernedly, placing her hand on his shoulder and squeezing. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Maybe." He whispered leaning in closer to the wounds. Taking a longer pull from his cigarette Charles gazed deeper, "There's something eerily familiar about these injuries, about the design of the weapon… But I can't put my finger on it." He shook his head, taking a step back. "I've seen some weird shit over the years though…these strange wounds could have come from all manner of things I've fought, but I don't remember seeing anything like that while I was dukeing it out around the gas station." His eyes glassed over as he leaned back on his bootheels pondering.

"It's nothing Enclave related?" Riley asked, looking down past Colder and Valentine towards the bodies, "They had some crazy tech."

"Can't be Enclave," Charles adamantly insisted, "I'd know if any of their agents were prowling around."

"The Enclave's subtler than you might think," Duke Colder cut into the dialogue, reminding the others he was still there. "Yet this is absolutely nothing Enclave related, I saw plenty of their doodads back in the Capital Wasteland and they had nothing that would leave these kinds of wounds. I guarantee it."

"Could this be Institute then?" Valentine murmured, "I don't know of any real bio-weapons in their employ but they wouldn't have told me anyway…"

"Maybe…" Charles responded nonchalantly, "But I'm not feeling it. It was something else…some place else…some place sinister…"

There was a brief moment where it seemed like Charles would actually stumble across the revelation he was looking for when Longfellow came huffing and puffing back through the hole in the farthest wall, sweat beading off his forehead and tracing its way down the slate-grey beard covering his face.

"I need some people to follow me! Now!" The tracker gasped out, sucking breath into his lungs with a rattling gasp, "The mercenaries got away with the General's son and they've split. I Need more eyes on this." There was a brief pause, before something else struck him, something he had to discuss without delay, "Also, Nick, I need you to follow this second set of tracks that leads off towards 111. I got a gut feeling that there's something bad going on over there. Let's be safe and check it off."

"I'll take those two," Nick gestured towards Charles and Riley with his mechanical hand, flicking away his cigarette with the other. Drawing the oversized 44. Magnum that Alexander had gifted him all those months ago the synthetic detective loaded six large bullets into the chambers, snapping the wheel shut with a definitive click. Charles was ready with his Chinese assault rifle and Riley with Infiltrator which cut down on the time needed to prepare for the sally outward. Tugging down on his fedora slightly, Nick addressed Old Longfellow, "Where are these tracks I'm supposed to be following?"

The elderly tracker gestured back over his shoulder, "You head out through the hole in the wall and just follow the tracks a few klicks until they all split off. Take the leftmost set, the prints are pretty faded but you should be able to follow them just fine. I've got no clue what this guy was thinking heading off by himself before the bulk of the troops moved through the zone but it seems suspicious to me. You're a detective, detect."

"Alright, alright, we'll leave now." Nick turned to the Lone Wanderer and his wife, "I don't want you rolling out with me unless you want to. I guess I'm so used to being around the General that his method of commanding others seems to have rubbed off on me." He gave a wry, self-deprecating, smile, clearly embarrassed by the oversight.

Charles just shrugged, "I'm kind of used to people ordering me around at this point." He glanced over towards his wife, "She was one of 'em."

Riley gently smacked him on the shoulder, "Yeah, but I paid you, you ass."

"Honey, not in front of the nice detective," He responded with mock severity, pressing both hands over his heart, "He can't know I'm just a piece of meat to you."

Riley rolled her eyes and turned to face Nick Valentine, "So, how do you want to do this? You want to take point?" Flicking the safety off on her modified assault rifle, Riley stood ready.

Already moving towards the hole in the wall Nick waved for the duo to follow him, "I'll take point, I know the area well." Without any good counter-point to that issue the duo followed Nick without complaint, weapons at the ready, eyes up, gazes steady.

The forest was oddly peaceful and still, as if holding its breath for another massive gunfight. It had been an eternity since the United Commonwealth had seen a battle of that scale and it was as if the very ground was haunted by the experiences of the past hours. Yet despite the lingering smells of blood, death and gunpowder hanging heavy in the air like mist there was still beauty visible to the Wastelanders and to the synth himself.

"What's so big about Vault 111 anyway?" The Lone Wanderer asked casually enough, his armored Vault Suit a visible reminder that he'd had experiences with Vault-Tec and that company's murky reputation with the truth before.

"That's where the General popped out," Nick admitted, "Some kind of cryogenic experiment where they froze people from before the war, lied about what would happen to them after they climbed into some pods inside the depths of the Vault."

At the mention of Vault-Tec pods Charles visibly shuddered, "Vault-Tec contraptions, not even once."

"Yeah, I've seen my share," The synthetic detective shook his head, "Anyways, everyone in 111 died, except Alexander Blackwood. His wife, Nora, was killed by Kellogg, a mercenary for the Institute and his son was abducted. In his panicked rush to get Shaun back he left his wife's corpse behind and, by the time he'd returned, she'd been frozen so solidly he wasn't sure he could remove her body without irreparably damaging it, so he locked Vault 111 away both at the bottom of the Vault's elevator and the shed leading to that elevator door." Nick rubbed his head beneath his hat, glancing down towards the tangle of footprints beneath him and trying to find the old set of tracks that Longfellow had directed them towards.

"So you don't think whoever we're following actually went into the Vault?" Riley asked, adding her own halfway decent skills as a tracker to the detective's, trying to find these tracks.

"I doubt it," Nick stated definitively, without even a second's worth of pause, "Blackwood locked that place up tighter than a fort and threw away the key. No one's getting into the Vault; no one even goes near it, Blackwood's orders."

"So getting that thing open…"

"Would require the General's key and access card, neither of which are easily acquirable," Nick concluded, finally determining which of the tracks headed out the way they wanted, "Follow me," he pointed with the barrel of his magnum, directing the team of adventurers towards the Vault.

"If nothing's up there why go?" Riley inquired, not unreasonably as the trio moved along, slowly but certainly, taking in every angle of the forest. "Could they be trying to slip around back towards DC? A Talon Company guy breaking from the rest and running to safety?"

"Old Longfellow doesn't think so," Nick mused, tapping a metallic finger against his chin, "And that old man's instincts are pretty good…"

"They might be better than you'd think," Charles shouted, having taken a position to the front of the group to clear a small hill. "Unless there's another Vault-Tec hole in the area you know about."

"What the hell do you mean?" Valentine asked sharply, dashing up to join the Lone Wanderer on the hill. Sure enough, to his obvious surprise, the gaping maw of Vault 111 was wide open, beckoning the trio to venture into its depths. A chill wind swept through the air, as if the darkness was making its way, physically, to the surface of the Commonwealth.

"I thought you said this place was sealed up," Charles stated casually, looking down towards the ominous structure, Chinese Assault rifle clenched tightly in his hands.

"It was." The synth detective gazed towards 111 with yellow eyes narrowing, feeling around in his coat for a flashlight. "I think we'd better take a look inside."

The Lone Wanderer and his wife had to agree.

* * *

Alexander Blackwood managed to get to his feet, supported by a pair of simple crutches. Despite Curie's furious insistence that he remain indoors he needed to go out, he needed to see his people and for them to see him. They needed to know their general yet lived.

His uniform was in tatters and left behind, rather a simple bathrobe, undershirt and pants covered him as he hobbled out into the main street.

All around him remained the lingering touches of the previous chaos. A few small fires burned patches of brush or roadside stands, puddles of drying blood remained where their owners had fallen and hadn't been cleaned. Street lights had fallen, buildings were damaged with piles of rubble and shell casings scattered across the crumbling streets. The church he'd erected had suffered the brunt of an explosive attack, the steeple fallen to the ground and roof caved in. The smell of burning corn reached his nostrils, the fire through the remaining crops evidentially still burning, further hampering the attempts to keep the people fed.

 _I hope Danse really knows what he's doing…_

"Sir!" The robotic, British voice of his Mr. Handy, Codsworth, cut through the surrounding haze, the robot hovering towards him, "Sir, you should be resting! Colonel Danse has everything well in hand! Go back to bed!"

The mothering concern was evident in the Mr. Handy's voice and Alexander appreciated the sympathy, but at the same time he knew himself and he knew he had to be out and about, among the people who looked to him for leadership. And so, leaning on his crutches, dressed in his robe, he turned slightly to face Codsworth, "Hey, hey, Codsworth. I'm fine. Really." He tried to smile but he couldn't, the words felt hollow, shallow, a lie painted over the grim reality he felt in light of loosing both Cait and Shaun. Codsworth understood, he always did.

"Well, if you aren't going to listen to Miss Curie's excellent advice and return to bed I can at least make you comfortable." Codsworth was fundamentally irritated and clearly flustered but, for the love of his master, carried on regardless, "Would you care for a cup of hot tea or coffee? I'm sure I can round something up."

"Tea would be fantastic, thank you Codsworth." Alexander paused a moment, keeping himself upright on his crutches alone, "And find me a cigarette, I'm dying for a smoke!"

The robot waved with his pincer hand, suggesting that he'd heard that secondary commandment and was happy to carry it out. Codsworth turned on his jet and scuttled off towards the House of Tomorrow, seeking to fulfill the instructions of his master. He wasn't even out of sight before another robot stomped her way towards him.

Ada, looking as sturdy as ever despite the EMP burst and the raging battle, moved towards him with purpose, narrowly beating out the rapidly arriving Nick Valentine, whose features appeared grim, as if dreading what he had to tell Blackwood.

"General," Ada announced in her typical robotic monotone, "I've finally determined what items have been taken from your home. One key and one keycard, both removed from a toolbox beneath your bed. Analysis suggests that both items were used in the process of sealing Vault 111 from the general public."

"What the hell'd someone want with those?" Alexander mused aloud, eyes matching Nick's as the synth detective continued to make his way over, "There's no way anyone would know where to look… or for what…"

"Someone did." Nick Valentine announced dramatically, clenching a piece of paper in his hand. Passing the note to Alexander who opened it with mounting horror as it became obvious who'd written the note.

Scrawled in red letters, the hand shaky, the "ink" if it really was ink and he really doubted it was, spelled out the words "Thanks so much killer. It was good to see you again." The large heart that he recognized on the previous note he'd received over a year ago was painted on, suggesting beyond doubt who wrote this one.

"He's back, goddamnit." Blackwood gazed down at the pavement, his body going further numb at the thought of Pickman's return.

"There's more." Nick removed his hat and softly said, "Alexander…Nora, her body is gone from the Vault. Somebody took it."

* * *

 _Alexander's Journal_

 _There was a monster, a killer, he fooled me and Nick so long ago, slipping away by the skin of his teeth and leaving me a sick gift along the way. I always wondered if I'd get a chance to right this wrong. Now, I don't know what to do. Cait's gone, Shaun's gone and Pickman is back, for real this time._

 _Nora, baby, I don't know what he's done to you. I don't know how he managed to get his hands on you but I swear to Almighty God I'll find you and bring you home._

 _Cait, just hold on, you're harder than I'll ever be but I'm scared, so very scared that I'll never see you again. Hang on, hang on for dear life until I get there._

 _Pickman, when I find you, you sick son of a bitch, I'm going to correct a mistake I made. You aren't going to like the results._


	11. Purpose

_You'd be shocked by how long a human being can survive under the most dreadful of conditions. Locked in a basement, utterly dark, fed only rarely, cut on, bled dry. Still, if they've got the will to live they will, they'll push on, no matter how futile, in an attempt to spite me. Finally breaking their will is the sweetest thing…_

* * *

The darkness was smothering. Deep. Overwhelming. It was so utterly and completely lacking light that Cait stated to doubt her own memory of the sun. It was cold as well, damp and dank, smelling of musk and utterly empty. She assumed, at least, that it was empty; the darkness was so complete that anything could have been hidden within that room. She honestly wasn't even sure of its dimensions.

She'd been shackled to the wall, both hands above her head in individual cuffs, a similar pattern repeated with both her ankles, keeping her above the floor and pressed against the wall. Again, there was no way of knowing whether she was an inch or a foot off the ground.

Her skull was thundering like a drum in her head, beating against her brain, her eyes watering from the pain of the largest hangover she could consciously remember. Somehow, despite the head pain, there was a soreness in the pit of her stomach and an overwhelming nausea that was somehow worse than the headache.

Cait was a fighter, a scrapper and no matter how serious the situation was she didn't fly off into panic. Instead, she decided to figure out exactly what she could gleam about the situation. The room smelt faintly of oil and grease, a certain pungent smell that seemed vaguely familiar to her. She'd been in a place like it before, that much was absolutely true.

The second thing that struck her was that she wasn't alone. The sound of ragged breathing reached her ears, young, panicked, fighting off tears. "Shaun?" She asked, her voice hushed due to ignorance of the surroundings and concern for who might be listening. The breathing picked up and faint sounds of straining pathetically against bonds emerged from the darkness, "Shaun, it's Cait. I'm right here kiddo, I'm right here."

"Cait?" It was Shaun's voice emerging from the darkness, broken and scared but sounding unharmed. "Cait, where are you?"

"I'm here somewhere. I'm in the room with you." She paused awkwardly, entirely unsure how to advance the conversation. "It'll be okay…" Ever to her the words sounded hollow and yet there wasn't an alternative.

Still, Shaun seemed like he wanted to hear it, "You sure?" His voice was soft, coming from everywhere and nowhere within the darkened room despite the frailty of the owner. Cait's battered old heart went out to him and, as tired as she was, she wanted to keep him safe.

"I swear to you kiddio, no one's going to get at you without going through me."

 _I hope he knows how much I mean that but I hope more that he doesn't realize how powerless I am to make anything of it._

* * *

"Pickman!" The voice of Obadiah Blackhall rumbled across the confines of the Vault 66 atrium, "What was this shameful display?" Standing behind the chosen prophet of Ug-Qualtoth was the rest of the council. The Scientist, bearded face stoic, his blood-stained Vault-Tec labcoat suggesting he'd continued with his experiments, drawing The Surgeon's work ever closer to fruition during the time of the attack. The Little Clown, face hidden behind a maniac's smile prowled around the dark corners of the atrium, staring outward with unblinking eyes at the artist in the suit. Daniel Littlehorn, his Talon Mercenary Company having taken sever casualties over the course battle, seemed tenser than he'd ever been. Many squads had been reduced to half or less combat efficiency with plenty of wounded besides.

The Minutemen and Brotherhood forces had been severely battered by the attack, with large amounts of property damage and casualties in addition but they were not scattered and Sanctuary Hills was not taken.

"You promised there'd be no interference with the ritual! We've begun to gather the necessary components! The necessary people! The Stars will be right for that brief window in a few days and they won't be right again until long after we're gone from this world!" Blackhall was livid, his body shaking like a leaf as his bony hands curled up into fists. "Now, thanks to your idiotic trust in these raiders, we've got the Minutemen, bloodied but alive, coming after us!"

The silence was deafening, hanging over them in the air like a cloud of dismay, Blackhall seethed; the Clown cocked his head to the side like a morbid owl but despite this, Pickman stayed collected, his suit clean and face composed. "We don't know they're coming after us."

"Bullshit." Littlehorn growled, stomping towards Pickman and staring down the younger, smaller man, "My boys are the best in the business but after a beating like this they're going to leave some kind of trail. These Brotherhood Knights are going to be hot on their tails…"

"A pity the Talon Company wasn't up to their usual par." Pickman's words were snide, divisive and spoken with confidence. The glove was thrown and Littlehorn wasn't going to take it without laying a response back.

"Listen here you two-bit bogeyman, this is on you. I was promised an army, loot, hostages!" He stood taller spreading his arms out and trying to intimidate Pickman physically, "We've got nothing. Davidson reported no hostages or sacrifices were taken and, while we damaged the capital and killed a swath of our enemies, we didn't take the city and already Brotherhood and Minutemen reinforcements are on their way to shore up the defenses. Already they're punching back!"  
"My pawns did everything in their power to battle through, but the fact remains, the Talon Company has been bested yet again, at least it was more than a small squad that did it this time." Pickman's sickly-sweet smile showed that he knew exactly to what he was referring. The fall of Fort Constantine, taken by the Lone Wanderer, his Super Mutant ally and a few Brotherhood of Steel Paladins, from a whole company of Talon mercs, was a point of great agony for Littlehorn and his entire organization.

"You…"

"Gentlemen." The Scientist of all people cut into the argument, "This bickering is pointless. The stars are right, we must act, we have no choice." That much was true at least.

"Agreed." Blackhall took the initiative, his role as high priest made him the obvious choice for that purpose, "Littlehorn, what can you do to ensure our forces are ready for a counter-attack? If the ritual occurs as we intend we won't need them afterwards, so their lives are cheap."

"I can reorganize our boys into squads and redistribute heavy weapons. There's plenty we can do to turn Salem into a bunker. If it weren't for that damned Brotherhood airship we could buy a few hours rather than minutes."

The Scientist coughed, "My predecessor had prepared an ace up his sleeve within the depths of the Red Racer factory for future Brotherhood of Steel interference, an ace I've since inherited. Leave the issue to me. Littlehorn, do whatever you can to the town, I'll deal with the sky."

"And I'll return to the field to do what I do best." Pickman's cryptic words and smile chilled Blackhall in a way it never had before and Ug-Qualtoth's worldly speaker had to get some clarity.

"What exactly is that, Mr. Pickman?" Despite everything he'd done in the name of his god over his very long life, much of it unpleasant, and the way it had hardened him towards horror, he was nervous about exactly what answer he would receive.

Pickman turned back towards him in determined steps, all the eerier for their certainty, "Why I thought it was obvious Mr. Blackhall. I'm an agent of chaos."

* * *

 _The house stank of stale blood and flesh, with a healthy dose of mold and musk thrown in. The paintings were eerie and the displays of severed limbs morbid. The little light there was cast long shadows across the hallways and along the walls, flickering out from the various gas lamps and small fires some "displays" contained. The sun's rays trickled through the grime covered window where they could penetrate the filth but rather than comforting him it was a reminder that the outside world was so far away._

 _Yet a younger Alexander Blackwood couldn't focus on the gory displays and horrifying paintings because he was fighting for his life. The raider swung the hatchet in wide arcs, screaming at the top of his lungs as Alexander blocked the strikes with his machete, ability to fight back hampered by the tight space of the hallway. Nick was engaged in a shootout with two raiders in the gallery, his pipe pistol running hot from constant gunfire._

 _Alexander ducked a particularly vicious downward diagonal strike, feeling the axe-head tug a few strands from his toque as the razor's edge of the weapon skimmed his skull without real harm._

 _The Sole Survivor jabbed with the machete, the point scarring across the raider's stomach and driving the bandit back a few steps. Throwing a right hook with his free hand, Alexander struck the raider in the chin, dislodging the man's gasmask and blinding him. Without pause Alexander launched a brutal chop towards the raider's head. The edge of his machete was more than sharp enough for the task and split the enemy's head down the middle._

 _Pulling the weapon free in a spray of blood, Alexander turned to face the gallery where Nick was hunkered down behind the middle display, the various body parts of a raider strung along planks of wood scarecrow style. The two raiders moved in, firing their pipe rifles with gusto, leaving the shelter of the arch on the other side of the gallery. Alexander knew it was his best chance to even these odds._

 _Before the raiders notice he'd bested their college in the door side hallway the survivor of 111 moved to the edge of the gallery, throwing his machete into the back of the nearest raider. The man screamed as the blade punched through his back, dropping him to the floor. Nick took the opportunity to lunge outward and fire every bullet left in his pipe revolver into the chest of the suddenly solo raider._

 _Even as the other man was collapsing in a bullet-riddled pile, Alexander pulled his machete free from the corpse, "Nick. You okay?" He wiped the weapon off on the bandana he kept around his neck before slipping it back onto his belt._

 _"Can't complain." The synth detective responded, putting a few spare rounds into his now empty revolver, "Hancock was right, it's a creepy place."_

 _"Pickman's gallery," Alexander mused, returning to the hallway and retrieving his double-barreled shotgun from where he'd dropped it when the hatchet man had struck. "Creepier than I expected." Retrieving the weapon and checking to ensure that both shells were still loaded he glanced up towards the nearest painting on the wall._

 _There was something unsettling about the work, the grotesque mixture of yellow, black and red, all blending in against a deeper red background. The image was a pile of eyes and tendrils, exquisitely painted; there was no doubt about that, yet the image created revulsion and horror in equal measure the likes of which Alexander hadn't felt in a long time, perhaps ever. "I really miss the museum; you wouldn't see shit like this in it." He could help the reflection, feeling the pang of guilt at his missing son who he still hadn't found._

 _"That's a piece that really brings out the emotion, huh." Nick stated casually, though even his robotic features seemed affected by what he saw, "It'd look lovely in your living room, right above the couch."_

 _"I don't know, might not match the rug…"_

 _Before Nick could give an equally sarcastic response the sound of shuffling from the kitchen could be heard, followed by the click of a rifle preparing to fire, "Get down!" The detective roared, dropping to the floor as the crack of the hunting rifle echoed throughout the hallway. The bullet whizzed past Alexander's head, burying itself in the wall beside the door._

 _Alexander raised his shotgun and returned fire, the shells ripping down the hallway and splintering the wood around the kitchen doorway. The raider fell back into the kitchen, pulling the bolt on his weapon to prepare a second shot. Even as Nick put a few bullets in the air, the Sole Survivor snapped his double-barrel shotgun open and jammed two fresh shells into the weapon as he moved._

 _The raider spun out into the hallway again, steadying his hunting rifle for a more accurate shot as Alexander barreled towards his enemy, loaded shotgun clutched loosely in his hand. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as both men's reactions and skills were put to the purest test. Alexander squeezed the trigger on his weapon just a little faster and at their close proximity aiming wasn't really an issue._

 _The kickback in the weapon seemed extra jarring due to the rapid movement, both barrels going off at once. The twin shells impacted the raider at close range, caving in his stomach and ripping his ribcage asunder. The force of both slugs was enough to fling the now deceased raider backward against the far wall of the kitchen and, entirely unexpectedly, smashed through that wall and tumbled down a sharp set of hidden stairs._

 _An unusual silence settled over the building, as if the gallery itself was holding its breath and waiting for something. The smoke from the shotgun blew away past him, the scent of gunpowder filling his nostrils._

 _"A secret passage," Nick mused, clicking his synthetic tongue against his teeth, "If I were holed up inside a creepy-ass mansion with these bloodstained paintings, where would I keep my truly gruesome stuff."_

 _"Probably in the hidden basement, which I bet these raiders figured out as well and that's why this guy was standing guard." It seemed a logical enough conclusion and, judging from the screaming and gunfire echoing up from said basement, whoever occupied that basement had alienated the raiders to some degree._

 _"Shall we see what's got this bunch so pissy?" Alexander stated casually, aiming his shotgun towards the sharply turning, roughly-hewn, concrete stairs and striding towards them determinedly. Nick glanced casually towards the rickety staircase that twisted up towards the second floor of the ominous building, somehow seeming darker than the gallery itself, before following Alexander Blackwood into the depths of the macabre art exhibit._

 _There was a sense of urgency in the Sole Survivor's footsteps, though tempered with caution and a need for stealth as he moved towards the gunfire. Someone was in trouble, someone needed him and by God he'd be there._

 _"We've got you now Pickman! You sick son of a bitch! I'll pull your guts out through your throat!" The voice was screeching, ricocheting off the walls and tunnels like shrapnel from a shotgun barrel, assaulting the sense of hearing with its ferocity. The sounds of scraping metal and automatic rifle fire thundered in the concrete tunnels, winding their way towards the two men._

 _"Let's move, Nick!" Alexander hissed, ducking his head and rushing towards the sounds of battle. The tunnels opened up into a large boiler room, pipes snaking in and out of the walls, steam filtering out of several loose bolts and filling the room with a wispy mist that clouded vision._

 _"I'll break you in half!" A different voice, muffled by a gasmask or some similar apparel, screamed out in the fog, closer than Blackwood found comfortable. Emerging from the steam, more resembling a mountain than a man was a raider, leather armor straining to maintaining his muscular bulk, the full gasmask covering his face painted to resemble a screaming skull, his heavily scarred and tattooed hands wrapped around the handle of a pool cue, wrapped tightly in barbed wire._

 _His eyes narrowed in on Alexander and, with a furious scream, swung the cue towards the Sole Survivor's head with both hands. Blackwood leaned back, narrowly avoiding the jagged barbs of the weapon. He answered the attack with his shotgun, the boom of the double-barrels echoing in the boiler room, as the shells tore the raider asunder, attracting the attention of every other hostile in the area._

 _A female, face covered in sack, came rushing towards him, the ripper in her hand seeming to scream with the wrath of every raider that he'd dropped over his few months of escape. Behind her came a deeper engine growling, suggesting a much bigger weapon, the shuffling of several more feet moving and the clicking of a rifle warning of even more oncoming enemies._

 _His shotgun was empty and yet he wasn't afraid. All Alexander could think was of Shaun, he had to find Shaun. To find Shaun he needed Hancock's help, to get Hancock's help he needed to report back about the gallery and to report back he needed to survive the next few seconds._

 _Time slowed to a crawl as over a decade of military service followed by surviving the harsh reality of post-war America kicked in and his entire inner being screamed into battle._

 _He stepped forward, avoiding the chopping strike of the ripper, the screeching teeth sounding dulled in his slowed state. He lashed out with both hands, the shotgun falling as he grabbed her by the sack covering on her head. She was unprepared for the unexpected motion and offered little resistance as he took her head with both hands, smashing the woman's face against one of the pipes. There was a sickening crunch and the sack hood slowly stained red as she fell._

 _It was enough time for Alexander to pull the machete from his belt, but not quite enough to get his 10 millimeter handgun from the holster on the other side before the next raider was coming towards him through the steam. That man seemed more Super Mutant than human, a massive chainsaw clutched in both hands. The weapon roared as he swung, but Alexander was no longer there, falling to his knees and sliding forward. Alexander chopped through the raider's knee as he slid, the chainsaw missing him utterly._

 _The Sole Survivor was rising and swinging towards the man immediately behind the chainsaw wielder, the machete chopping clean through the neck of the third raider. This third raider died cleanly, particularly compared to the second, who collapsed on his own chainsaw due to the sudden loss of his leg. The sound of a pistol suggested Nick put the man out of his misery before the chainsaw caused too much agony but Alexander Blackwood paid it no mind._

 _The forth raider held a board with several sawblades nailed along it. He raised the weapon over head in both hands, but Blackwood didn't hesitate for a moment, punching his machete through the man's chest in one swift strike. The Sole Survivor finally got a hand on his handgun, pulling it free from his holster even as he kept plowing forward, ripping his machete free from the dying man._

 _One more raider emerged from the mist, aiming a G3 Assault rifle towards the blood-covered, man-sized hurricane that had just gone through his men in a few seconds without pause. Yet once again his reaction was too slow and Alexander pulled the trigger on his handgun in rapid succession, putting several bullets into the mask-covered face of the raider boss._

 _The boss fell back onto the concrete floor with a solitary thud. Alexander gasped in air, his body heaving from the exhaustion his sudden burst had just cause. His face was covered in blood, arms soaked in the same, machete felt heavy in his hand and yet somehow Alexander knew if another mob of raiders burst into the room he could have dismembered them the same way._

 _His senses were so utterly focused on destruction that it took him a moment to notice the man in the suit, curled up in the corner, gazing towards him with something resembling awe._

 _"Are you alright sir?" Nick asked hesitantly, as if waiting for Alexander to speak but realizing finally that he wasn't going to._

 _"I think so, yes." The man brushed off his suit, rising to his feet and reaching into his breast pocket, "They were going to kill me…"_

 _"You pissed them off something fierce," Nick admitted, glancing back towards the pile of dismembered raiders, "Why'd they storm this place anyway?"_

 _"I think they were looking for this," the man responded, pulling a small, brass key from the pocket and holding it towards the light. "Or perhaps they simply intended to take my life, art can have leave a serious reaction on people."_

 _"Art?" Alexander finally croaked, "You made those paintings and…human statues up there?" He returned his handgun to the holster while shaking the blood from his machete._

 _"Yes I find that…natural, ingredients work best." The man obviously knew more to it than he stated, "But I can find plenty of supplies without hunting, worry not."_

 _It seemed a lie to Blackwood but he realized that he really didn't care whether the artist killed raiders or not. "So what's the key lead to?"_

 _"My safe, hidden behind one of the paintings in my gallery. The gaze of Qualtoth, closest to the door, you'll recognize it I'm sure."_

 _"Why do we need to know what the painting with your stash looks like?" Nick asked, reasonably enough, seeming more and more uncomfortable with the man's prescience the longer he was there._

 _"Because I'm giving the key to you. After all, you deserve whatever you want for saving my life." The artist looked at both men and added, "Go on, take it, I insist."_

 _Without further comment Alexander took the key with his free hand, rolling it around on his palm, feeling its oddly heavy weight._

 _"Oh, and one more thing, my name is Pickman, Robert Pickman…"_

* * *

Alexander's eyes snapped open, his body based with sweat, shuddering and gazing up at the ceiling. He could feel the aftereffects of the sleeping pills Curie had prescribed working through his system, apparently failing to do their job as she'd described.

The image of Pickman giving him that key rolled around in his mind, haunting him like it so often did when he was alone with his thoughts.

 _I should have killed him, I should have killed him when I had the chance._

He kicked the blanket off his bed, feeling the pain shooting through his injured body as even that simple action stressed the medication and stitches he'd been given. Rolling past the side of the bed that Cait normally occupied, trying to get a whiff of her faintly lingering scent before it faded away forever, Alexander's bare feet slapped the floor, once again shooting pain up his leg where the bullet had struck him.

He wasn't sure what it was, he didn't know exactly what it was about the memory that had surfaced that drove him to the stash, he didn't know what it was that made him need to see the blade.

The lock was still broken, but the red toolbox was closed as if in denial that it now lacked any real security and was simply a matter of taking the handle and pulling it up to open. Alexander did that, lifting up the lid and retrieving the blade, the note folded up beneath it, that same bloody note that he'd pulled out of the safe when he realized that he'd made a mistake. That note that shouted and screamed at him that he should have put a bullet through the man's head, the note that taunted him with that horrid truth, he'd let the killer escape.

With a growl Alexander crumpled the note in his fist, flinging it into the corner behind his old Vault-Tec steamer as if that would somehow punish the killer artist for abusing his wife's body.

Yet, the note didn't hold his fascination like the blade did. It was a combat knife with a remarkably straight edge, the blade subtly serrated for maximum damage to any victim it impaled, leading to excess bleeding. The knife blade itself was dark, almost black, removing any trace of sheen from the weapon. In his hand it was perfectly balanced, almost weightless as if there was nothing to it, like holding air. And yet, that weapon had saved his life time and time again, all the while taunting him with the knowledge that he'd let a madman, a psychotic murderer, escape his proper brand of Commonwealth justice. Now it seemed God was punishing him for that decision.

Slamming the blade back into the leather sheath he kept around it, the general returned the weapon to the toolbox, Kellogg's 44 magnum glaring up at him from the bottom, a permanent reminder of his ultimate failure to protect the one woman who mattered most to him. "Hey babe" he whispered to the air, feeling the breeze drift in through the cracks in windows and walls, feeling her prescience within that as best he could, "I know you're listening." He closed the lid on the toolbox, "That monster wouldn't ever kill again, that pistol hasn't been fired since the day I took it off his corpse, but even so, you've suffered again. I'm so very sorry."

He shook his head, standing up from his bed and making his way towards the ice box he kept outside his home, he needed something stronger than Brahmin milk to sooth his spirit. Wrapping his housecoat around his battered frame, Alexander Blackwood hobbled into the living room. He could see Dogmeat, sleeping in his dog house with paws crossed. Smokey, the cat never seeming to sleep at all, dropped down from his place on the kitchen counter and made his way across the floor to his master.

Rubbing the cat's head a few times and earning a soft purr for his trouble, Alexander continued towards the door, pausing long enough to snatch a well worn pack of Camel brand cigarettes and his lighter from the countertop. The outside air was pleasantly cool, sapping the heat from his sweat-stained body. It seemed he'd been more affected by the memory than he'd initially thought.

Cracking open the icebox and fetching the bourbon stored at the bottom Alexander felt rather than heard Duke Colder's presence. "Can't sleep sir?" Pulling the cork from the bottle as he turned, the Sole Survivor found himself facing the blonde-haired Minuteman sergeant. The man's plasma rifle glowed green in the darkness, illuminating his immaculately maintained uniform and clean-shaven, square-jawed features. He saluted the general promptly, despite Alexander's lack of uniform.

"At ease Sergeant." He took one long pull on the bourbon, feeling the liquid burn all the way down his battered throat. "Would you care for a drink?"

"I'm on duty, general."

"How about keeping an old man company?"

"Sir?" The man's features were quizzical as if unsure what exactly Alexander meant.

"I mean me," he took another drink from the glass bottle before recorking it and returning it to the icebox. "I've got at least two-hundred years on you." He smiled, but it was weak and forced, lacking any of the punch he was typically capable of. More out of respect than anything else, Duke managed a faint chuckle.

Alexander felt it in his joints, in his bones, in the shaking of his hands as he reached into his housecoat pocket from the packet of cigarettes, the one enemy he couldn't shoot, stab or set on fire, age.

 _Goddamn old man, you are getting old aren't you?_

"I can stay awhile sir." Duke slung the plasma rifle across his shoulder, adjusting his posture to the military stance of, "at ease," with the practiced discipline of a professional soldier.

Alexander wanted to vent his feelings, to let loose the agony he felt boiling up within him all over Duke, but he was a general, even while mourning in his pajamas and so kept his mouth shut. Feeling the soothing sensation of smoke washing down the back of his throat Alexander shook his head to clear his thoughts. "You never really told me much about your time in DC as a merc." The conversation seemed almost necessary to break the stillness of the night. If the stillness maintained its silent vigil he might be forced to consider the very real possibility of losing his family all over again. That thought might have killed him.

"There isn't much to tell." Colder shrugged his broad shoulders, "We fought Super Mutants, raiders, the chaos and disorder of DC." He smiled wistfully, lost in memories of happier times. "I just wanted to be part of something beautiful you know? The dream of the Ol' US of A come back to life." He turned to face the Minutemen general, his face oddly illuminated by the glow of his plasma rifle. "You of all people should understand that, sir."

"Aye, that I do." He puffed out a cloud of smoke, ignoring the strange severity behind the man's words. "I guess not many of us have any idea of what that world was like. Even me, the only one who can actually claim I lived it, can't quite remember the details like I used to." He snorted, "Sometimes it feels like I just dreamed those days, that I've always lived in this hellscape of a wasteland."

"But you dream of an America restored?" Colder pressed on, determined not to let the answer he sought slip away.

"Absolutely." He meant it, more than anything. "But it's nice not to have to do it alone." Another puff of cigarette smoke disappeared into the air, fading away into an atmosphere already damaged by nuclear fire.

"General? Are you referring to Colonel Garvey?" Duke asked with some obvious confusion, "Colonel Shaw? The Brotherhood?" His reference to the Brotherhood of Steel was hesitant, lacking, as if he didn't particularly enjoy the thought of the Power Armor clad warriors running amok across the Commonwealth. Beyond that, there was almost a level of animosity suggesting that Duke didn't like the Brotherhood under the best of circumstances. Certainly many of the Minutemen didn't harbor the best feelings towards the warriors in Steel, Alexander's own former involvement with the organization not withstanding.

"Them, among others." He paused, "Have you met Charles? The Lone Wanderer? He's a man who shares our dreams, a man of singular purpose, a man who we can count on when the chips are down. I rather like him."

There was a shiver that seemed to wrack Duke's body suddenly, yet the air was remarkably warm for the season and time. Still, Alexander had his back to a wall which would have blocked any sudden breeze. There was a long, almost potent pause, before Colder spoke robotically, sounding more machine the human. "I have met him. Once. He is stronger than I expected."

"Aye. That he is…"

* * *

 _Alexander Blackwood's War Journal_

 _Duke got me thinking about purpose. What is it? What is mine? I thought it was to defend my country from the Commies. Then I thought it was to raise my son and care for my wife as best I could. After I awoke, my whole life, my whole purpose was to find Shaun and avenge Nora's murder. But that fell through too._

 _Then it became about stopping the Institute, freeing the Commonwealth from the clutches of madmen. Yet even as I became a General, A Paladin, a Runner, detective, explorer, Super Hero and so much more, I never stopped to ask myself why I was doing what I was doing, what my purpose was for anything I did. I just put one foot in front of the other. For Cait, for Shaun, for my friends._

 _But now, now things are complicated. Now I'm a political figure, now I'm a messiah and I don't know if this was something I was cut out for. I was a soldier, a good one, but that was all…_

 _I know this…One thing… Beyond all doubt. I will find him, that Artist, and he won't escape again._


	12. Unwanted Answers

**AN: I'm really sorry this took so long! I'm back on the bus so hopefully the next chapters will come faster!  
**

* * *

 _And yet, despite all of one's best efforts, that spark, that fire can easily be lost. What do I do if my muse ever failed me? What would I do if my inspiration were lost? I supposed I'd have to be ready for such an eventuality and take the appropriate steps to ensure creative continuity…_

* * *

Kells pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, willing away the figures before him. The numbers unfortunately did not vanish when he reopened those eyes, they remained as tauntingly real as before.

While fortunately no one critical had been killed during the battle, though Proctors Quinlan and Teagan had been severely wounded, there was still no positive way to spin the news. There had been casualties, Paladins, Scribes, trainees, plus damages to equipment, lost suits of Power Armor and buckets worth of ammunition. For what they'd got in the bargain it didn't seem an ideal trade.

Head Scribe Rothchild leaned onto the table, shifting through the manifests, listings and reports the various Proctors had written up with robotic stiffness. With Teagan temporarily out of the picture, Ingram had done her best to fulfill his obligations but her specialties were wasted within bookkeeping and it showed within her notes. "Proctor Ingram's handwriting is atrocious." The reedy voice of Rothchild spoke aloud, bouncing around the small chamber, echoing with a metallic reverb. "The presentation is so typically Paladin, decisive but without any flourishes."

"You mean she tells it like it is, no bullshit." Kells responded to the Head Scribe with solemn determination, sighing deeply.

"And right now we could use a little bit of…bullshit," Rothchild stated after some hesitation for using a word so vulgar. "After all, our numbers are not positive."

"We'll get the Paladins properly re-organized into new units, at least for the time being. We'll reorganize and hit this bandit army with everything we've got." Kells leaned onto the table, examining the tattered old map, eyes narrowing with determination. "We'll bleed for this, Rothchild, make no mistake."

"More men will die." It was a statement, not a question, an absolute, one laced with grief and sorrow but an absolute none the less.

"They will." Kells glared at the imaginary raiders before him, "But more of them will die than ours, many, many more. There will be an unholy firestorm, the wrath of God rained down upon the heads of those who would dare bloody the nose of the Brotherhood of Steel, rest assured, those of us who fall will not fall alone. Hell will be very full when we get our hands on these raiders…I promise you…"

* * *

"It was good to watch you fight again." Maxson's words were honest and straight from his heart.

 _It was like old times. You were a goddess, I was a boy._

Sarah Lyons crinkled her nose and smiled, "It felt good to fight again, been far too long since I've scrapped." Arthur knew it, more than mere words could say. Sarah was a fighter, a warrior, anxious to fly into the next battle, laser rifle blazing. It was one of the many things he loved about her.

The bridge of the Prydwyn was quiet, empty save those two occupying it. The lights were dimmed low, simply the soft red glow of the emergency lights as the airship's engines gently hummed, filling the empty space with white noise. The sharp scent of bourbon filled the air as Maxson opened an aged bottle, one of the finest he owned. The set of crystal decanters he'd provided for the pair had been chilled to perfection, keeping the bourbon cold without diluting the flavor of the beverage with something so crude as ice.

"It's good to have you back among us," Maxson filled both glasses, handing one to Sarah. After a moment of hesitation, the daughter of the Lyon took hers and sipped it.

"It's good." It almost seemed painful for her to admit, as if she didn't want anything Arthur was vaguely involved in to be remotely enjoyable.

Choosing to ignore the implied insult Maxson took a long sip from his decanter, letting the strong alcohol burn down his throat before speaking again. "Sarah," he spoke, choosing to be bold, to let the courage of his forefathers fill his heart, "As both a man, and the High Elder, I'm proud to have you back among us. Your place is with the Brotherhood."

Sarah Lyons winced at the title. Gazing down at her muddied reflection with the murky liquid she whispered, "High Elder. That used to be me." The pause hung in the air, Arthur wishing by every passage within the Codex that she wouldn't continue with the trail of thought she'd clearly started. "That used to be my father."

 _Damn._

Arthur Maxson turned towards the glass, gazing out over the evening darkness that had covered the land. His neck tingled, his stomach churned. This wasn't how he was hoping this reunion would go. Things had been almost pleasant between them, the bridges slowly starting to mend. Yet that could all be taken away in moments, one misstep, and he might lose her heart forever.

Finding his mouth suddenly very dry, the High Elder took a long sip from his glass, as much for courage as to reinvigorate his speaking ability. "Sarah, I'm so very sorry about your father. Lyons was a good man." He meant it, every word.

"You didn't agree with anything he stood for." Sarah's words took a bitter, accusatory, edge. She turned to face him, glass held low, "I know it."

"That's unfair and untrue," The High Elder defended, taking a step towards him, "Owen Lyons cared for people, for the Brotherhood, maybe too much. He loved you deeply. He loved you, and that's what matters."

"You always wanted to hoard our technology, never let anyone else in. You'd have turned Charles himself away from our door if you'd been in my father's place. Your devotion to the Codex blinds you!"

"Your father's disregard for it tore us apart." The words could have easily been yelled, screamed, but instead were delivered with quiet sorrow. "The civil war was shameful, Sarah, it never should have come to pass." He paused, letting the woman he loved fume before continuing, "Even so, I admired him. I cannot say otherwise."

"Really?" She snorted, "Was my body even cold before you stepped over it?" Sarah was dressed simply, a grey tanktop and combat pants but even so her steely beauty made his heart ache. That made the words she said cut even deeper.

 _Does she hate me so?_

"Sarah…" He took a step towards her, pausing when she turned her gaze on him, searing through his skin with her anger, "Sarah, we've been over this, we looked for you for weeks, Charles, the Rangers…Sarah I went out myself, personally, looking for you." He put the decanter down on the table, holding out his hands before him in an attempt to placate the simmering woman. "When you…died…it broke me." Before the daughter of the Lyon could interrupt him Maxson cut her off, "I understand that you're furious, that you're hurting, but don't presume you understand how I felt. I missed you, terribly." He wasn't sure if it was a good time to go on but he powered forward anyway, "You were an inspiration, a guiding light to an impressionable young man, suddenly snatched away!" The outburst was a little too real, too raw, and he immediately regretted it. An awkward silence fell over the room as the two looked past each other, neither wanting to admit exactly what had been stated.

"I'm going to my quarters," Sarah stated after a moment, putting her decanter down on the table slowly, running both hands through her platinum hair.

Arthur didn't stop her, didn't say a word, he stood there as she left, hands folded over the other until Kells arrived to deliver his report.

* * *

"Basically, we're waiting until we've absolutely certain we've got this locked in, but then we call the Brotherhood and bring the hurt down on these buggers!" Sturges seemed far more confident than he had any right to be considering what had occurred, chewing a blade of razorgrain as he worked on several different radios. "They've hit us bad, no doubt about it, but when we hit them back... well I'd hate to be those guys. You've never seen the general right and truly pissed!"

Charles, the Lone Wanderer, leaned back against the concrete wall of the radio block, fetching his Vault-Tec lighter from within a shoulder pocket as he lit up a cigarette. "That wasn't him angry?" The General had been a terrifying force on the battlefield, fighting off hoards of raiders and bandits without thought to his own safety. "Not even a little bit?"

"Nah." Sturges shook his head, bending low to recover a wrench that had fallen off the table and slid into the corner, "Alexander keeps his head when it comes to battle, keeps his cool. When he picks up the laser musket or shotgun he doesn't hate, doesn't make mistakes like that." Rapping the wrench against the nearest radio, Sturges placed his ear against it before beginning the process of disassembly. "I've only seen him truly angry once…"

"When was that?" Charles probed taking a puff on his cigarette, "What pushed him over the edge?"

"The first time I met him," Sturges' voice took on a faraway tone as he temporarily paused his work, eyes rolling off towards the calling. "Preston had led us into the Concord Meuseum of Freedom. Gunners had killed all the Minutemen they could find and weren't planning on stopping until they'd gotten the rest. Preston was exhausted, battered, but he refused to give up, to let us civilians down." He shook his head, "It was down me, Mama Murphy and the Longs. None of us Minutemen, none of us armed. Seemed like the end of the line, but then our jumpsuited savior appeared over the horizon and things changed pretty quick."

"Alexander Blackwood." Charles' statement was delivered without hesitation, with an air of reverence that he didn't often offer for mere men. Yet after having seen Blackwood on the field of battle he couldn't help but feel it appropriate.

"Got it in one." The words rang out without fanfare, rather a silence, like the general's name carried enough weight on its own that dramatic commentary was unnecessary. "We found out later that he'd just lost his wife and home and had been chasing Shaun, his son who'd been taken by the Institute." He paused again, looking down. "He came out of Vault 111 with all the rage of a grieving husband, and the panicked determination of a terrified father looking desperately for his only son. Those raiders never stood a chance. Until the day I die I'll never forget that look on his face. Pure rage." Sturges' tone was quiet, almost afraid, "It made me glad I wasn't his target."

"And that's how he met Colonel Garvey I would assume."

"They've been good friends ever since." Sturges sighed sadly, "He's taking Preston's loss hard."

"But Garvey is still alive?" Charles pointed out, somewhat confused, taking a long drag on the cigarette, blowing the smoke respectfully away from the mechanic's face. "Or he was last time I checked in with your doctor."

"Curie can do plenty, but she's no miracle worker." Sturges' heart was breaking but he was clearly trying to keep up appearances. "Garvey lost his right arm and leg, plus lord knows how much blood. It's a matter of when, not if, he slips away. Goddamn it…"  
Sturges turned back towards the radio, busying himself with its guts, attempting to hide the tears that were surely falling on account of his friend.

Determining that it was best to give the mechanic some privacy with his sorrow, Charles turned and made his way towards the bazaar. Fawkes, his old friend, was sitting in a wicker chair, miraculously holding up the Super Mutant's enormous weight. His tiny spectacles perched humorously on his nose as his yellow eyes squinted through the glass in an attempt to make out the print in his leather-bound book. Despite the massive size of his green hands, the title of the book was still visible as "Compete works of Shakespeare," a volume with pages so weathered from Fawkes' near constant use that Charles thought it halfway a miracle his friend could still turn those pages.

"You've read that one before," he stated, flicking away the embers from the tip of his cigarette.

"Several times in fact," Fawkes responded, looking over the top of the book, "I can practically see the type in my sleep." He turned a page with the gentleness that didn't seem in keeping with his giant fingers.

"So why the re-read?"

"The bard sooths me." He paused momentarily before looking up at his friend, "Besides that, I wish that my mind remain clear and devoted towards solving the problems besetting our little community."

"Such as? I know we got our asses kicked pretty hard back there, what else could there be?" Tossing his spent cigarette into a crack along the shattered asphalt, The Lone Wanderer brushed his hands against his pants.

Closing Shakespeare, Fawkes folded his hands, "Consider the following, a massive attack on the peace conference. Certainly these raiders couldn't have thought this would have prevented the Cities of the Capital Wasteland and the United Commonwealth from aligning, that doesn't follow."

"Unless they were hoping to kill us all in one go," The Vault Dweller pointed out, rather astutely.

"That certainly is a possibility, but then when send such a sizable team of Talon Company men to attack Sanctuary Hills itself? Why not commit them into the fight by the Red Rocket?" He shook his head, "This puzzles me because I cannot determine what exactly they were hoping to achieve with the move. While the Talon men destroyed numerous crops, supplies and stole ammunition, that can't have been the only goal. Why break into the General's house? Why go through the effort of expending lives, of which they paid rather heavily,"

"That they did," Charles aggressively noted, "We got more than our fair share of them!"

"Indeed," Fawkes responded glibly, taking the interruption in stride. "Why spend the effort to steal the body of the General's fallen wife? I don't see the tradeoff."

"An attempt to break Blackwood's will. Break his will, break the army's will, cause chaos on the inside and more easily best us."

"But, why try this tactic if Alexander was at the peace conference? Why try at all, considering the knowledge of Nora's disappearance wouldn't have been known until the battle was over, where they'd have killed the General, had things gone their way."

"Why take Nora, Cait and Shaun?" The pieces were starting to seem as jumbled now to Charles as they did Fawkes. "This doesn't make sense…"

"Unless there are differing goals among our opposition," Fawkes pointed out cannily, holding up a solitary finger. "Determining what those goals are, that should be our agenda. If only we knew what was going on in the minds of our enemies…"

* * *

The dog tags were cold against his skin, hidden beneath his shirt, which itself was covered by his Minutemen jacket. Duke's eyes scanned the burnt trees and surviving woodlands that were within Sanctuary territory, taking his soldiers along the river in search of enemy stragglers. The duo accompanied Sgt Colder without complaints, understanding full well the need for vigilance in light of the recent attack.

The Commonwealth was quiet, the air unusually still that day, the river almost frozen, it's current so slowed. All and all, he found it unusually disconcerting. The green glow from his plasma rifle seemed oddly bright in the midday sun as his eyes darted along the treeline, looking for a sign of recent disturbance, a task more difficult than one would expect considering the carnage left behind in the area, by raiders attacking, and subsequently fleeing, the action around the Red Rocket. Scorch marks, shattered trees and spent shell casings were more numerous than fallen leaves and the numerous footprints ground everything beneath a fine layer of mud.

Colder shook his head, "Damn it, half an army could waltz on through this spot and we'd have nothing. With half our sensors still down we're still blind."

"Sarge?" One of his Minutemen, a young man named Trent, suggested, almost timidly as if he feared his superior's reaction, "Maybe we should get some towers up? Just a few hunting blinds or something, until we know we've taken care of this threat?" The man looked down a kicked a clod of dirt, placing his laser musket against his shoulder like a mannequin on display at the Concord Museum.

"That's far from a bad idea," Colder mused, bending towards the stream to fill his canteen, "After all, this attack's proven how vulnerable we can be without our tech, not a good place, I reckon." The water in the river was cool, refreshing and with minimal radiation exposure, certainly not enough to overpower the cautionary dose of Rad-X he'd taken before setting out.

The river took on an almost mirror-like shine, the sun's rays reflecting brilliantly against it and it was in this reflection that Colder saw the man in the suit approaching silently from the rear.

"Trent! Markus! Ambush!" He howled as he spun, dropping his canteen and aiming the plasma rifle towards the mysterious attacker. His reflexes were trained and perfectly executed, yet still too slow for Trent. Duke didn't see the crossbow in the man's hands, not until the deadly bolt had been fired.

Even as Trent's limp body collapsed, blood gushing out from his now pierced neck Markus was firing, sending a deadly bolt of plasma fire in the direction of…nothing. The energy ray seared its way through the air, unquestionably towards where Colder had just seen him, yet he was gone, vanished.

"Where the hell'd he go?" The Minutemen sergeant snapped, glancing around wildly for the man in the suit. Nothing answered but the trees and the wind. "Markus! Report!"

"Sir! I don't see shit!" He was fully panicked cranking his laser musket as fast as his shaking hands could allow. "He just vanished!"

"Send up a flare! We're going to need some backup!" His expressed orders seemed to snap some life back into Markus because the solider instantly moved to fulfill the command. He drew the flare gun from his holster and had it aimed towards the sky before the crossbow bolt struck him through the wrist.

Squealing in pain and surprise Markus dropped the flare gun fell backward onto the ground cracking his head loudly against a rock. Colder spat plasma fire towards the direction of the crossbow but, once again, seemed to find nothing. Markus lay still, dead or unconscious, Duke had no way of knowing. He was alone in every sense that mattered, if only he could reach the flare gun…

"Having a rough time of it? Sergeant Duke Colder?" The voice was sickly sweet and came from all around him. He spun rapidly in circles, trying to get any fix on the owner of the voice. Yet even this action couldn't distract him from a subtle, haunting truth ringing in the back of his mind.

 _How did he know my name?_

Taking every step backward with the utmost caution, Colder scanned the surrounding area, eyes desperate for any trace of the man who'd so efficiently dispatched his patrol.

"How was DC? I understand the weather was rather lovely during your stay, not that you would have seen much in that bunker of yours, so drab, so dreary…"

"Shut up," Duke growled under his breath, "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" He was progressively raising his voice, panic setting in at a rate far quicker than any veteran soldier should expect.

If he could just make his way back to Sanctuary, he just had to get close, someone would see him, someone would come for him…

"Do you think Blackwood would like to know about your time in the bunker? Do you think he'd like to know that you lied about your loyalties? Tsk, tsk."

Colder did something stupid, he blind fired. Holding down the trigger on his plasma rifle he sprayed glowing bolts in all directions, in the vainest hope of hitting something. When the cell ran dry he was sure that'd be the moment the mysterious killer would strike, but he didn't.

It wasn't the attack he expected, it wasn't with knife or bow. Instead, he heard the faintest whooshing sound and felt a pinprick on his neck. Before he could properly react he felt a stupor rushing along his limbs as his body began to shut down. Darkness rushed towards him as he slumped to the ground, despite his best efforts to resist the poison's effects. "Oh, I won't kill you Sergeant Colder, don't worry, you'll do me far more good alive than dead…"  
His last image before falling unconscious was of the man in the grey suit with the dark mustache, firing Markus' stolen flare gun into the air.

"Why'd you call for help…" Was all the sergeant managed to get out before oblivion claimed him.

* * *

Zimmer was enraged. Terrible food, a pathetic excuse for a bed and his only associates were a handful of morons who couldn't execute a simple attack on a few lousy malcontents holed up in a ruin was his lot now, a far cry from the glory days. His arthritis was acting up, the joint pain accelerated by the dampness of the late autumn rains, further soured his mood. Had he been back at the Institute a few pills or procedures would have dealt with so simple a medical issue. Alas, that glorious beacon of reasoning was now a smoldering crater, thanks to the aforementioned malcontents, and he'd be dead years before anything remotely similar to his old lab came into creation.

Armitage was out exploring the ruins of Salem, the fallback point provided by their mysterious benefactor, in search of something to eat. With X6-88 strangely unavailable, Z4-93 destroyed in the battle and Y2-83 patrolling the houses with the few remaining synth soldiers, Zimmer found himself bereft of synthetic company for the first time in memory, it didn't sit well with him.

The room he occupied seemed incapable of holding back the wind or chill, so desperate was its state of repair, or lack thereof, that the papers and data pads on his desk shifted with each passing breath of wind. The only advantage of the building's less than optimal condition was the creaking of the floorboards, so Zimmer heard Dr Ayo's arrival long before the other scientist announced his prescience.

"I was hoping I'd find you here," Ayo spoke after finally entering the room, his words were low, ponderous and full of menace. The few grey hairs remaining on his wrinkled neck were standing on end, Zimmer's sixth sense warning him of some kind of danger.

His Institute issue laser pistol was sitting on the table, holding down a stack of documents he'd 'borrowed' from the Rivet City labs. It had seemed useful at the time, but now he'd much rather have the pistol in his hands.

"I'm a busy man, Dr Ayo," he reminded his subordinate, turning slowly to face the younger scientist. The other man had both hands behind his back, face a stoic mask, hiding all potential emotions beneath dulled eyes.

"Not for much longer."

"Is that so?" Zimmer didn't care for that comment at all. "Last time I checked I was still the director of the Institute, with all the authority that entails."

"We're the Institute doctor, us and the remaining Coursers," Ayo stated bitterly, "The others were killed or fled. I figured you should know." Ayo could have been bluffing, but somehow the older scientist doubted it.

 _Seems perfectly fitting for it to come down to this. The last two men in the burning building fighting over the right to sit at the head of the table.  
_ "They were joined by plenty of the scum you entrusted our technology to," Ayo spat on the ground contemptibly, "Mason informs me that, despite his best efforts, our surviving soldiers are slipping away in the night, trying to escape before the Minutemen and their Brotherhood allies find us."

"We've still got the Talon Company men, and the Pack. Until I decided to move, we are not moving!"

"You've led us down this path! 'Director!'" The sarcasm surrounding the title was palatable, "You've thrown our lot in with raiders! Mercenaries! This grey-suited psychopath! It's destroyed what chance we had left to rebuild! Foolish old man!"

Before Zimmer could protest Ayo reveled what he'd been hiding behind his back, a nine-millimeter handgun, ballistic, rather than his own Institute issue laser. The old scientist didn't have to be a weapon's expert to see the weapon was cocked and loaded.

"Bullets?" Zimmer arched a solitary eyebrow, "Am I not worth the energy cells?"

"I'm not stupid Dr Zimmer," Ayo explained, "I'll blame your death on one of our former associates. With so many abandoning ship who'd question me?" Both hands were wrapped around the handle, the barrel steady in the air, at this distance Ayo couldn't possibly miss. "After I kill you and reclaim control of the Institute, I'll start over, I'll track down the other surviving scientists and we'll begin afresh, somewhere new. I'll rest easier knowing the man who drove me to this is rotting in the ground."

Zimmer wasn't afraid, not of death and not of Dr Justin Ayo. The other scientist had been so wrapped up in his speech, in his half-cooked murder plot, that he didn't hear the floorboards squeaking, growing louder and louder. The reassuring form of Armitage appeared in the doorframe, looming over Ayo's shoulder like the specter of death, examining the situation in a few seconds with his faster-than-human processing.

Without hesitation the Courser dropped the sandwich and thermos, barreling into Ayo's back, right arm locked in place. Ayo's spine snapped beneath the force of the Courser's surprise blow with an echoing crack that reverberated around the room. Armitage didn't hesitate, didn't delay the execution. Ayo groaned, flopping about pointlessly on the floor, failing hands unable to hold his pistol. The Courser ended Ayo's misery with a swift punch, his synthetic fist driving through the man's skull and into the floorboards.

Zimmer looked away, the gruesome display of violence a little too much, even for his hardened senses. "Doctor, it seems my timing was most fortuitous." Armitage stated phlegmatically cleaning the gore and blood from his gloved hand with the back of Ayo's labcoat. Glancing back towards the fallen sandwich and spilled coffee the Synth apologized, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to find you something else for lunch. It's spoiled."

"Armitage, considering the circumstances I think it's quite alright…"

 _The Institute is down to me, as Ayo feared, but what if he was right? What if I am some kind of pawn in a game beyond my understanding? No! That can't be! No one is pulling a fast one on Dr Zimmer! Not one of these savages has the brains to outsmart the Institute's chief director!_

* * *

"What's all this commotion?" Alexander asked Codsworth as he hobbled out of the House of Tomorrow, braced on both crutches.

"Sir," the Mr. Handy began, "There was an attack on one of our patrols, the entire party slaughtered, save for Sergeant Colder. Unfortunately that seems to have led to the current crisis…"

"Which is?" The General enquired, somewhat perturbed that his robot wasn't filling him in.

"You'll want to speak with Colonel Danse about that, sir. I understand he personally brought the Sergeant back to Sanctuary Hills," Codsworth was always upfront with Alexander, more friend, family even, than servant. The idea that he wasn't willing to reveal what he knew up front was more distressing than Alexander cared to admit.

Hobbling his way over towards the repurposed old house now serving as a command center, the General found the building guarded by four Minutemen soldiers, laser muskets fully charged, though pointed towards the ground. Deacon was leaning against the wall of the home across the street, arms folded, trying not to look like he was desperate for a peak inside the building. Glory was hunched over the nearby cooking pot, doing her damnedest to craft something edible from their limited supplies.

Determining he wanted the Railroad agent's assessment, Alexander slowly made his way towards Deacon. "Agent Bullseye," The bald man greeted, using a codename long abandoned, "What brings you to my neck of the woods?" Glancing towards the man's crutches his concern visible even through the sun glasses, Deacon asked, "Should you even be walking?"

"Curie's not my mother," The Sole Survivor responded curtly, "My duties never stop."

 _Besides, if they do stop, for even a moment, I might think about losing my family all over again. I can't go through with that, I just can't._

"So you've come just to chat up little old me? I'm flattered." Deacon pressed his hands against his heart, giving a mock curtsey, "Well I'm always happy to help a brother out, what's the situation here Blackwood?"

The General nodded towards the guards surrounding the building, keeping the occupants within, "What does your espionage experience tell you about this?"

Deacon awkwardly rubbed the back of his head. "It's not good boss, I can tell you that." He readjusted his sunglasses, "Those Brotherhood pricks, they're real cloak and dagger types, not the Minutemen. Bad for the image. What ever is going on in there, it's bad enough that Danse is resorting to old tricks to keep it under wraps."

"You've got no clue."

"It involves Duke, that's all I've got." Deacon looked down, mumbling, "And not knowing really chaffs."

More concerned than before, Blackwood made his way across the street to his command center. The guards let him pass without question, sliding aside to make way for their injured commander.

Upon entering the normally cheery living area, Alexander was struck by just what a feeling of dread came over him. He'd lost Preston to injuries, maybe forever, Hancock was likewise wounded and out of the picture, with Ronnie holding the down the fort at The Castle, that left only him, Danse, and Colder with any real authority at Sanctuary Hills. Now something had happened to Colder…

Only Danse was present, dressed in his colonel's duster, hands clasped tightly behind his back, sweat beading on his face. Duke seemed to have relocated to the back cell as he was nowhere present.

"General Blackwood," Danse stated grimly, offering the proper salute, "We've got a critical situation on our hands." His features were glum, demeanor sour, seeming utterly appropriate for the words he spoke.

Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose and grimaced. "When it rains it pours, goddamn it…" He cracked his neck once and rolled his shoulders, "Okay Colonel, hit me with the bad news."

"It's about Sergeant Colder…"  
"I figured."

"He was attacked in the forest while on patrol, by one man. A man whose description seemed very similar to one you and Detective Valentine encountered once previously, a certain artist."

 _Pickman._

"This man killed both of Colder's troopers and paralyzed him with some kind of blow dart, but that's just the beginning of our troubles." Danse gestured towards the small end table in the command room. Sitting on the table was a small piece of parchment paper bearing a bloody heart that Alexander recognized in a moment, Pickman's sign was etched into his mind forever. On top of that note was a simple set of dog-tags, strangely highlighted against the parchment.

Blackwood crossed the room and snatched Pickman's note up in a quivering hand. The letters were written in that crisp, eloquent stroke that only the Artist could render, in that same bloody shade as every other note he'd ever left. "Hi killer, I'm sorry I missed you, really I am. Sergeant Colder had some dirty laundry he kept hidden from you, not particularly nice of him, so I brought it out into the open so everybody knows. Oh, your new lady and false kid send their regards…or would if they were able. Better find me quick. If you aren't sure where to start looking, maybe you should begin where your journey really did and no, I don't mean the icebox I stole your old lady from. Regards, Pickman."

The general crushed the note in his hand, "I'm coming for you baby, son, just hold on," he muttered under his breath, keeping Cait and Shaun in the center of his mind.

"Where it began? What the hell does that mean?" Danse asked seriously, trying not to look as concerned as he clearly felt.

"What I'm concerned about is Colder's 'dirty laundry.' Clearly you know what it is, so just tell me." Alexander glanced past his Colonel's shoulder towards the cell.

"Take a look at those tags." That was all Danse would say on the matter.

Alexander picked up the dog tags he'd so casually brushed aside, adjusting his glasses to better read the faded engravings. The front of the tag was stamped with a large capital E, and the back read in simple letters, "Colder, Duke. 2'nd Hellfire Division, DC Enclave."

* * *

 _Alexander Blackwood's War Journal_

 _People are always surprising me. You think you know them, you really do, and then everything turns on its head. Vault-Tec, McDonough…Pickman._

 _Colder lied to me, a lie of admission is still a lie. With the Capital Wasteland's heroes and the Brotherhood's legions harboring an Enclave veteran, even unwittingly, could unravel the whole thing._

 _Damn you Pickman! Tearing us apart like this!_

 _Yet, Colder is a good soldier, a good man, even, dare I say, a friend? I am starting to run out of those and I'm not sure I'm willing to lose this one without a fight._


	13. Less than Plesant Revelations

_And yet I do have fears, as odd as that may sound. I fear many things, but none so much as I do this simple, overwhelming, all consuming horror. I fear, above all, that no one will ever truly see my brilliance that, if all goes according to plan, no one will be left to recognize my genius._

* * *

Cait remembered the first time she'd laid eyes on her man. He wasn't her man then and she had no way of knowing just how much the four-eyed wanderer would mean to her in a few short months. Despite the psycho, beating a man to death with her bare hands and the gunfire erupting at the arrival of man, dog and Mr. Handy, he somehow still managed to make an impression.

He moved so smoothly, firing his double barrel and slipping in fresh shells like the movement was a natural extension of his own body. Each grenade was thrown with pitcher perfect accuracy. When the shotgun ran dry his revolver was fired with precision and discipline, not a bullet wasted.

Cait didn't believe in love at first sight, still didn't and even if she did, she could honestly say love wasn't the emotion Alexander inspired when he stepped into the cage and she finally got a good look at his rugged, but still handsome features. Lust would be more accurate. That man took her contract and led her out of that prison, into something she couldn't have even imagined.

Now here she was, another prison, the shackles on the wall and the physical darkness in the room may have been more obvious than the chem.-addiction and indentured servitude she found with Tommy Lonegan, but it was just as restrictive. Still, she bore the situation as stoically as possible. She was used to sleeping on a hard concrete floor with only a bottle of bourbon for company, so shackled to the wall wasn't all that much a step down.

"I could really use that bourbon now though," she murmured under her breath, the words bouncing around within the enclosed room. Shaun stirred but didn't move, too exhausted to react. She found herself growing more or more concerned about her lover's son as the time ticked by. She might be able to handle this isolation but a boy? Synth or no he was just a kid and as bitter and jaded as Cait had become over the years she didn't like anyone picking on kids, especially one important to he that had become her whole world. The sick mind behind this kidnapping would get what was coming to him in due course.

 _When I get my hands around your neck, boy'o, you'll wish you'd never been born._

The threat towards the invisible foe certainly made her feel better, but ultimately amounted to nothing. Besides, that feeling lasted for only a few moments because, unexpectedly, she felt a churning sensation rush through her stomach and threw up what little content her stomach still held. The vomit splattered off her boots, slopping onto the metallic floor below. A round of dry heaving followed, accompanied by throat wrenching coughing and cramping within her limbs as Cait's wiry body snapped against the bonds holding her against the wall.

Shaun, perhaps wisely, said nothing.

"It's alright, Shaun, it's alright, I'm fine." Except that was a lie and she knew it. Shaun probably knew it too.

 _What the hell is wrong with me? More importantly, am I going to live long enough to find out?_

* * *

"It's defensible enough, I guess," Gage admitted, glancing across Salem's skyline towards some of the taller structures where various raiders were stacking all the sandbags, scrap metal and wooden planks they could find in an effort to weather the inevitable counter attack.

"Yeah, that it is." Mason growled, sniffing the air like the dogs he so admired, hand tapping nervously against the butt of the homemade rifle slung across his back. "My boys will put up one hell of a scrap if it comes to it, that's for sure." Despite Mason's bravado there was a certain sense of finality about the Pack alpha's words. Sure Mason and his boys would put up a damn good fight, far too stubborn to back down from mere Power Armored warriors, but in the end they'd lose that fight. They had too.

The Minutemen and the Brotherhood had air superiority, technological advantages; they had numbers on their side after the failed attack on Sanctuary Hills. Perhaps, most importantly of all, they were fueled with the fires of vengeance; something that Gage knew personally could make all the difference.

So even as he watched a few Triggermen move a 50 caliber machine gun into place high in the church bell tower or noticed a few Gunners stacking missile launchers near the bunker entrance, Gage's opinion was unchanging, this battle wasn't one his side would win, not under any circumstances. The raider was already trying to come up with a plan to escape, fleeing into the darkness to start over elsewhere. He'd done it before and he'd do it again. Better to lose everything and keep your life rather than die surrounded by caps.

"I said we'll mow the Brotherhood bastards down! You even listening to me, pup?" Mason growled condescendingly. It seems that the alpha had continued speaking, even as Gage had found himself lost in thought. The man's confidence was as overpowering as his breath, yet somehow less infectious.

"Absolutely. I'm sure they'll regret coming to Salem." A lie and not even a good one at that. Gage didn't believe one scrap of what he said but that didn't stop him from puppeting what Mason wanted to hear. No point in letting the big man know he wasn't planning on sticking around for the big dust up. Mason was notorious for his treatment of cowards.

Porter Gage was one lucky son of a bitch, it was something he'd always been aware of, and thanked the universe for on a near daily basis. Most of the crazy situations he'd emerged from unscathed had been more due to luck than anything else. Luck and quick thinking, with a little bit of running thrown in for good measure. However with the doom fast approaching, he wasn't so sure his luck would hold out, that fate wouldn't discard him like she had so many others.

However, as he was about to discover, perhaps fate wasn't quite through with him yet.

X6-88 strode through the city towards him, dark coat flapping in the wind as him moved briskly, features as stoic as ever, sunglasses giving aid to the menacing appearance he cultivated. He seemed as unbothered by the turn of events as he did by anything, as if death would be little more than an inconvenience for him.

 _I suppose that's the difference between synths and organics. We can't get recycled, or reprogrammed. Once we blue-screen it's all over._

"Porter Gage," X6 said simply, "A word in private, please." Despite the nicety added to the end of the sentence it was a commandment, not an offer. Gage faced Mason and shrugged before moving towards the Courser. "Walk with me." Again, his input was not requested.

As they moved through the now heavily fortified remains of Salem, ducking around raiders and mercenaries prepping for the storm, X6 spoke, "I've been watching you Gage, your talent is unavoidable."

"Thanks, I reckon," the man responded simply, unsure exactly where the synth intended to take the conversation.

"Your gratitude isn't required, but your service is."

 _Well that seals it, I suppose, I'm a dead man walking._

He couldn't back out of whatever the Courser would present, not if he wanted to live, and he had no doubt whatever important task X6 had set aside for him would kill him. Damned either way.

"My service, huh," he fell back on his image of professionalism, trying to bury the pessimistic thoughts floating around in his head. "Well, what's the job?"

"Our mutual friend requires your assistance, not I. I am merely taking you where you need to go." The mention of the suited man caused a chill to race up the hardened raider's spine. He'd hoped never to cross paths with that…thing…again. Yet fate seemed cruel as ever, forcing him to, once again, meet the man with the sickly-sweet voice.

"When do we leave?" He thought about resisting, he thought about delaying, he thought about a lot of things, but in the end he went along with it. What choice did he have?

"Right this moment. Time is of the essence, Mr. Gage."

 _Now what the hell does that mean?_

* * *

Alexander Blackwood had had his fair share of tough conversations. That first meeting with Father, the argument with Kellogg, convincing Maxson to spare Danse, and telling Cait how he really felt, just to name a few. Despite all that practice, he never felt ready, certainly not now with what was about to happen.

A man he trusted, the man on the other side of the bars, had been revealed to be an Enclave soldier. A fact he'd buried and hidden away from all who'd asked. Now Blackwood had some juggling to do. When Maxson found out about Colder's former allegiance he'd want blood. Hell, considering what Alexander knew about Charles' father's death, the Lone Wander himself might want to plant that bullet in Duke. The more Alexander thought about it, the more people wanted Duke's head, so the general resolved to stop thinking about it.

Sergeant Colder sat on the other side of the bars, hands folded in his lap, face unreadable as he leaned backwards in the metal chair representing his only furniture. It pained Alexander to see the proud warrior reduced to such a state, even as Colder clearly tried not to let the situation affect him.

"Duke."

"General."

After an awkward pause the General reached into the breast pocket of his freshly repaired Minutemen coat, removing a solitary cigar. "I figured you could use this." Duke's fondness for a good cigar was well known and if there was ever a time a man could use one it was now.

"Much obliged general." The sergeant stood, approaching the bars. After passing the cigar through the cold-rolled steel, Alexander lit it from his own lighter.

He gave Colder a moment to enjoy a few puffs before he started with the interrogation. "Duke," he stated as monotone as possible, "I need you to be completely honest with me. No more secrets."

For a moment the blonde man appeared hurt by the statement, but ultimately understood Blackwood's position.

"Absolutely sir." He paused, before adding, "I'm sorry I got you into this mess. Soldier to solider, man to man, I never wanted to cause any complications."

"For what it's worth, I forgive you." There was a pause of Alexander's own before he finally asked, "The dog tags, are they real?"

"Yes."

"You really were Enclave?"

"Yes."

That was that then. It was one thing to have evidence, hearsay, even testimony; it was another to hear a confession. All hope of this being some kind of elaborate misunderstanding vanished. This was the truth then.

"So the stories you told us about the Sons of America, those I assume were somewhat altered from reality?"

Colder took a steadying breath of sweet cigar smoke. "The names were changed, there was no 'Sons of America,' there was only the Enclave. Yet everything about those tales, save the names, was accurate. They were simply accounts from my time with the Enclave, rather than some wandering band of mercs."

"Okay," Alexander fetched a metal chair of his own, turning it around so he could rest his chest against the back the general crossed his arms above the headrest. "Let's start from the beginning, you were born in DC?"

"Born into the Enclave. Dad was an officer, mom a scientist. The ideals were in my blood before I could walk. I believed in Colonel Autumn and in President Eden."

"So this is a matter of circumstance…" Alexander couldn't believe his luck, raised by the Enclave? He could swing that to his subordinates, even possibly Maxson. Colder was a good soldier, just happened to be born for the wrong team.

"At first, but I'd have happily signed on even if I hadn't been born into that life."

 _That complicates matters._

Alexander paused, giving himself time to process, time to determine what he actually wanted from Colder. "Why?" It was a simple, solitary word, and yet so much rested on the answer.

"The Enclave represented stability, order, progress, a way out of this insanity," Colder began, "Look around you, General Blackwood, we need that order now. That's why you do what you do, that's something you and I both see. The need for society from this chaos."

"Why them?" Alexander probed, "What makes those goals, noble though they are, draw you to the Enclave and not some other order? Why not the Brotherhood? Megaton? Even Riley's Rangers?"

"All of them lack something the Enclave has, legitimacy, a direct link to the government of Old America. That authority is the difference between thugery and professional soldiering, a critical difference. The Brotherhood claims much the same, but they've proven by their actions that they cannot be trusted with America's future. They have no proof of their claims. We alone have the right and responsibility to fix this country!"

"The Enclave has done terrible things…"

"Respectfully general, who hasn't?" The question burned across the room like an arrow, leading towards another awkward silence. Both men had done things they were less than proud of. Both men knew it about the other but would rather remain silent, for fear of loosing what they'd done into the world.

"So you served as a soldier, that's where you got your training?" Alexander moved towards a topic that generated less emotion than the other, taking a breather before diving back into the muck.

"Hellfire, much to the pride of my dad. Battled mutants, raiders, even skirmished with Brotherhood types a few times. Saw my fair share of action, but skill, luck and Power Armor got me through it mostly unharmed."

"Yeah, I get that." General Blackwood paused again, unsure of how to proceed. The more he peeled the onion, the more he was unsure of what he'd find, and how much he'd like it.

Despite his desire to keep things buried, to believe differently of Colder than he might after further discussion he plowed onward. "What changed? You aren't there now."

"Charles happened, one man changed everything." Colder leaned back, eyes glazed over, the smoke cloud generated by the cigar giving him an almost demented appearance as he recalled the incident in all its details. "Colonel Autumn took a few vertibirds and a company of troops over to the Jefferson Memorial, the locals were building some kind of water filter and we needed to secure it. Poor buggers didn't stand a chance against the Super Mutants. They needed our help."

 _That's not how Charles tells it._

Rather than interrupt Colder and challenge his interpretation of events, Alexander let them unfold as his Sergeant explained them. "I was left behind at our base in Raven Rock, guard duty. Apparently things at the purifier went south and shooting happened. A lot of our guys were killed, as were some of the civvies."

Duke turned his head and blew out a cloud of smoke. "I heard that account first hand from one of the scientists who decided to go along with us rather than flee back into the Wasteland. She mentioned this Vault Dweller, the son of James, lead scientist on the project. Apparently his father had refused to cooperate with Colonel Autumn and that had started the fighting. James had been killed in it." There was a hint of sorrow in Duke's voice, a solemn regret that so many lives had been lost pointlessly rather than all side with the Enclave's wisdom.

"What'd she tell you about Charles?" Alexander wanted the first impression, the portrait of a man built before he'd arrived.

"Not much." Duke shook his head, "She said he was brilliant, like his dad, but compassionate, tenderhearted, always cracking jokes. Apparently he was set to be the Vault's priest, once upon a time."

"Man of God, huh." Alexander mused aloud. He'd met the man a few times now and priesthood didn't seem like it'd be a suitable role for him.

"I didn't see it." Colder admitted, "Nothing about our encounter screamed holy man." He paused. "It was like any day on Raven Rock, that moment that changed everything." There was a visible shuddering accompanying that particular line, memory tinted with fear. "I heard the rumblings; Colonel Autumn had brought in a high value prisoner, Brotherhood of Steel type. I didn't pay much attention to hearsay, never had, but this time it was all too true."

"Charles was that prisoner, wasn't he?"

The former Enclave soldier glanced towards the ground, cradling the cigar in his hands as his eyes scanned for any crack in the floor large enough to hide him. "Yeah. Yeah he was." The man shook his head, "One minute I'm about to grab some sleep after a long patrol, the next the alarms were blazing. Our robots had gone haywire, shooting up the place, the systems had been hijacked, Eden was dead, many of my brothers in arms, dead. It was chaos, pandemonium. As I rushed into battle, ready to do my part to maintain the Enclave, I saw him." Colder seemed lost in the memory, "He strode through the flames, unafraid, covered in blood not his own, a double-barreled shotgun across his shoulder and a smile on his face. Our robots ignored him, firing instead on me!"

"And Charles, he didn't kill you?" It was a fair question.

"He must not have seen me as he went by, moving quickly but without fear. In a moment I realized the self-destruct alarm had been triggered. My brothers in arms, the scientists and officers, everyone desperately tried to save themselves, stampeding towards the exits and vertibirds, ignoring everything we'd drilled for, ignoring our principles."

"Did you join them?" The words were free of judgment, a simple yes or no question. Yet despite his attempts to ask as gently as possible the effects of his question seemed to haunt the other man.

Duke hung his head in shame, "Yes." His words were so meek, so gentle, that Alexander almost failed to hear him.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of," Alexander responded, "You wouldn't have served anybody by dying pointlessly in an explosion."

"I swore I'd protect the Enclave! Not turn tail and run!" A bit of fire came into Duke's voice as he stood defiantly, "I was a warrior! I had purpose! And rather than die like a man upholding my oaths I ran away like a boy!" He stood, leaning against the bars of his makeshift prison, "I ran, like a damn coward, more concern with my life than my honor!"

There was an awkward silence, broken only by Duke's ragged breathing as he sucked air into battered lungs. "What then?" It was a simple question, yet carrying immeasurable weight.

"As I turned back to look one last time, I saw the Rock go up in flames, I could feel the heat from the explosion even through my Power Armor. After returning to my senses I tried to make my way towards the fallback point at Jefferson Memorial."

"You missed Liberty Prime? Probably in your best interest."

"Yeah, that 'bot might have granted me the end I deserved but, alas no such luck." He finished the cigar, passing the nub back through the bars to the general he'd served. "One lone man can't make his way through DC all that quickly, not safely anyway. Despite my guilt, my desire for death, I didn't want to end up in a Super Mutant's stew pot or tortured by raiders, not if I could help it."

 _I have to agree on that one. There's a difference between sacrifice and suffering._

"I missed the battle at Jefferson." He sounded almost relieved, as if he'd feared what he'd have discovered about himself had he been in that fight. "Heard all sorts of conflicting reports later on, Autumn was dead, Autumn was alive, Autumn was a computer, all sorts of crazy shit. But nothing concrete, nothing I could prove." He snorted, "I didn't have a clue what to do next, so I spent some time wandering around DC, looking for other survivors."

"What about Adams Airforce base? I read Brotherhood after action reports regarding the action there. It seems to me like there were plenty of Enclave forces there."

Duke gave a hollow laugh, a dry thing that bounced around the confines of the space. "Due to either the world's best or worst luck, seeing how you look at it, I actually didn't learn about Adams until it was too late. Brotherhood of Steel destroyed it, along with any chance of stability for the Capital Wasteland, long before I'd managed to arrive there."

"Did you still want to die?" Alexander wasn't entirely sure what prompted such a morbid question on his part, curiosity? Concern? Regardless of the motive, he wanted to understand Duke's mind, to try and grasp what exactly made him carry on up to Boston. There was a gap there, no doubt about it, a moment where Duke determined to live rather than curl up and die.

"I couldn't see the point of going on. All I'd ever known, all I'd ever believed in, was gone." Duke's voice was robotic, monotone. "Yet something kept me going, some inner drive that pushes us to survive, to refuse to surrender to something as mundane as death."

"So you moved."

"DC was nothing to me anymore," Colder shrugged his broad shoulders, "I figured what I needed was a change in scenery. I'd heard rumors about some civilization still existing up in Boston, some survivors with ideals like mine and figured that was my best bet. It was a long trip but, in the end, I ran into your Minutemen several months later and happily signed up."

"You went from the Enclave to the Minutemen?"

"Seemed a natural fit."

That casual certainty concerned Blackwood more than he cared to admit.

"The Minutemen are a natural fit to you, ex-Enclave?"

"General, I'm a soldier; I always have been and always will be. Nothing is ever going to change that fact. Fighting our natures is a pointless waste of time and energy, we are what we are."

"So there are plenty of opportunities to soldier, mercenary bands, caravan guards, every settlement needs a gun." He neglected to mention the obvious, seeing as how Duke Colder might regard the Brotherhood of Steel after all he'd been through.

"My honor, my weapon, is not for sale." He was so firm in his words, so confident in his statements that Alexander was sorry he'd brought it up. As if sensing the unspoken question, Duke continued, "The Brotherhood, even under the best of circumstances, are out of they question. They cloak what they do in unnecessary mystery bordering on pageantry, they're pretentious egotistical maniacs who think being a solder isn't good enough."

 _Pot, meet kettle._

"Why the Minutemen, why us specifically? Even if the others failed to meet your standards you wouldn't have joined us simply to have some organization to have joined."

"You had the connection to America." It was that simple, "You had legitimacy, through you, General Blackwood, the Minutemen could be a force for Old America to rise again, better and stronger than ever."

That was it then. He had more questions, more information he wanted, yet Alexander knew he had to give Blackwood time to process all that was happening. Hell, he didn't fully understand what was happening. A breather so he could sort out exactly what he was going to tell the others regarding someone who, despite it all, was a good man with good intentions.

As he turned to leave the man to his thoughts, Alexander spoke. "Sergeant Colder, you don't have to believe me, you can choose to believe whatever you will, but the truth will remain the same, regardless of our personal preferences to the matter."

"The truth is what exactly, general?" Colder's tone had tensed, his body language shifted towards defensive. He knew something was coming, some challenge to his worldview.

"The truth is Eden was a power-mad computer, who planned to eliminate anyone the Enclave deemed 'mutated.' Basically, everyone outside a handful of Vault dwellers and top Enclave brass. When he realized the error of his ways thanks to Charles, he destroyed himself and Raven Rock rather than continue." Rather than slow down and deliver the information more slowly he pressed on, "Autumn was a butcher, who killed a bunch of innocent scientists and civilians to get his hands on the purifier, one they weren't going to protect, like you believed, but instead use as a weapon. The virus they'd plant within that drinking water, on Eden's orders, would have killed anyone with 'impure genetics' like Preston, Piper, Cait, Longfellow and so many other people you call friend." After a moments consideration he added, "At this point, it might have killed me too."

 _I've certainly been exposed to plenty of radiation, who knows how mutated by genetic structure is by now?_

"I admire your commitment, Duke, I really do. You're a good man with a big heart. The Enclave? They aren't worthy of you."

"General, respectfully, that's a crock of shit."

Rather than offer any rebuttal, any further counter to Duke's defiance, Alexander Blackwood stated, rather simply, "I'll see you soon Sergeant Colder, take care now."

Even as he left the room he felt the weight of command, even heavier than before, crushing down against him. He desperately wished Cait was here, not that she was much help when it came to complex political matters. Still, he could always count on her to say something along the lines of, "quit you're fussing darling, you'll always think of something."

"I hope I don't let you down Cait." He whispered to the ghost of his lover, "I really don't."

* * *

Lance Captain Kells stood proudly on the Prydwen's bridge, hands clasped behind his back, head held up defiantly as his crew worked around the clock. They were scanning, examining every angle, reading every report that came in, relaying every scrap of information that came over the radio. If there was anywhere left in the Commonwealth for the raider scum to hide, they'd know soon enough.

"Lance Captain!" One of the Scribes operating the radio announced loudly, waving him over, "I've got a report coming in from Paladin McGraw…you need to hear it sir."

Kells strode firmly across the bridge and held the receiver up to his ear, "McGraw? This is Kells, talk to me."

The signal was garbled and static-filled, yet he was able to hear enough to understand the former Outcast's message. "We've….visual…plenty of…aiders…coordinates…they haven't found us….no idea we see them…alem…I rep….Salem…The raiders….led in Salem."

"Acknowledge Paladin McGraw, hold your position, do not engage! Reinforcements are on their way!"

Slamming the receiver down, Kells turned to one of the bridge crew. "Scribe, inform Elder Maxson at once, tell him we've found the bastards!"

Even as the crewman saluted smartly and headed up the ladder without delay Kells was grinning like a wolf from ear to ear. "Time for a turkey shoot."

This was it, the final piece of business. The remaining raiders would be swiftly crushed and order restored. There was nothing at Salem that could rival the power of the Prydwen, much less the newly reconstructed Liberty Prime.

Nothing at all.

* * *

 _Alexander Blackwood's Journal_

 _I face a truly dire situation. A truly difficult choice to make regarding a man I care about, a good solider and dare I say, a friend. Yet he fought for a regime that would have destroyed the America he loved._

 _But, then again, didn't I?_

 _Even if things were different, can I let him go? Can I deal with the political fallout, the consequences of such an action?_

 _Alternatively, with things in such dire state, can I afford not to?_


	14. It all lines up

_As intoxicating as the hunt, as invigorating is the chase, eventually it needs to end, for nothing beautiful is permanent. The bait draws the prey into the trap, the prey ignorantly stumbles into it and meets their end. And from their end, from their suffering, comes something truly wonderful. Art in its purest form._

* * *

While colonels, majors, elders and general all argued and debated about the best course of action to take against the raider forces, one man, or rather one synth, was focused on the deeper mystery, one that had fallen by the wayside in the chaos of events but continued to fascinate him with its implications.

Nick Valentine poured over the threatening note again and again, trying to determine any sort of clue missed in its earlier discovery. As Alexander met with Duke, desperate to find his next course of action something Nick didn't envy the Minutemen's leader, the detective did what he was best at and began unraveling the mystery. It'd been a hell of a task, convincing Danse to give him Pickman's note but in the end he relented. Danse cared about Shaun more than most and anything that could help find the boy was worth bending the rules a little in the Colonel's eyes.

The first thing he'd determined was that the note wasn't actually written on paper. It had actually been crafted upon tattered old parchment, something you didn't just find lying around any ruined convince store. Comparing the note to Pickman's other writings did confirm a match in style leaving Nick positive the deranged artist was responsible for this threat.

There had to be some connection between the line about "Where it truly began" and where to start looking for Cait and the kid. Pickman was a lunatic but he needed an audience, he'd want someone to find him and witness what he did.

"Where it truly began hmmm…." Nick mused, leaning back from the parchment and letting his processors do their bit for a while. Alexander had told him in length about the days immediately following Nora's death and Shaun's abduction. Vault 111 was an obvious place to start looking but the note clearly suggested otherwise. While Nick wouldn't normally take the advice of a madman clearly trying to mess with General Blackwood it seemed obvious that 111 wasn't the site of this master plan. Why move Nora's body if the Vault was somewhere Pickman wanted to lure them?

"Hard at work detective?" The voice was spoken with proper sentence composition and enunciation but the rough tone and slow pace made it obvious who was speaking.

Fawkes was quickly becoming Nick's favorite of the Capital Wasteland crowd. Like Nick, Fawkes was an intellectual, an outsider who'd rather use his wits than his fists to solve problems. Of course, just like Nick when left with no choice he'd scrap with the best of them.

"Just trying to figure out what this maniac's plan is," he stated with obvious distress, stroking his chin with one hand, "He's got my friend's girlfriend and son and he's planning something sick for them, I just know it."

"And you want to have something before Alexander Blackwood arrives?" It was obvious to the Super Mutant who Nick's friend in question was. While Valentine was easy-going and, in general, liked most people, there was one he treasured above all others.

"I want us to catch this bastard!" Nick slammed his hand against the table, leaving a visible dent, "Haven't we suffered enough from nutjobs behind curtains?" He shook his head, letting the frustration wash over him. "I'm sick of puppet masters."

"Perhaps I can help," retrieving his miniature spectacles, Fawkes rested them atop his nose, massive eyes squinting to see through the tiny lenses. "This 'ice box' is Vault 111?" Nick nodded, "It seems this Pickman believes your general's journey truly began elsewhere. Yet this cannot have been far from 111 and certainly not Sanctuary. While that may have been physically true, your killer, from what I understand, is something of a poet and would value symbolism above history."

"It has to be before Diamond City," Nick added after a moment's thought, "None of my contacts have heard anything at all about Pickman there, and with the city locked up tighter than a drum after the attack on Sanctuary not even our killer could slip in and out without alerting someone." He paused again, "And why write this on parchment? Paper's more readily available. Every other note he's written was on paper, so it doesn't fit his usual MO."

"Any unusual occurrence must be a clue." Fawkes agreed, tenderly examining the parchment paper, squinting closely at it from behind his miniature spectacles. "This specimen is particularly ancient. I would suggest it came from a document produced long before the Great War."

Nick raised a synthetic eyebrow. "You know that? How?"

Fawkes looked almost embarrassed, a particularly humorous image considering his massive bulk and intimidating prescience. "Books fascinate me. Often I'll drag Charles and Riley on these foolish treasure hunts in an attempt to track down a particular piece of the old world literature. It's a hobby."

"Ancient huh." Nick mused, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully. Then, suddenly it hit him, like a light switch thrown in his mind he was instantly aware of the pieces. "I know where this came from and I know where we have to begin. Blackwood needs to know, immediately!"

* * *

"Nick, you're one hundred percent certain about this?" Alexander stated one last time for the record. He trusted Nick with his life but so many things hung in the balance that no chance could be afforded.

Nick tapped a mechanical finger over his breast, "Cross my central processor and hope to die. This parchment comes from the Museum of Freedom in Concord. That's where your new life 'Truly began' at least in Pickman's disturbed mind."

"Think about it, General," Danse respectfully stated, adding to the Synth's arguments, "In Concord you killed your first raiders, you found your first lead, began the journey that ultimately ended with you wearing that jacket. To someone as demented as Richard Pickman, The Museum of Freedom has a certain poetry about it. It lines up." He paused, grimly looking down, "It's also abandoned. Allowing him to set any number of traps for you."

"It's obviously a trap," Sturges put into words what the rest of Alexander's small counsel was thinking. Hancock looked paler than usual still recovering from his wounds, Danse emotionless, Nick clearly concerned, Sturges mulling and Old Longfellow simply seemed frustrated by events.

"Obviously. But he has my family," Alexander looked down grimly at the table. "That note made things clear. Cait and Shaun don't have much time. I won't lose them, I can't." The words were so firm, so determined that Hell itself couldn't have changed his mind. Everyone around the table nodded, none of them would talk Blackwood down, all of them understood the significance of what had to happen. He was going to Concord and he was going ASAP.

"What about the war effort against the raiders?" Hancock announced with a grimace, "We've got those bastards down but not out. When the knock-out punch is delivered we need to be ready."

"Pickman wants me, and me alone…"

"General, with all due respect there's no way in hell I'm letting you face that monster and anyone with him alone…"

"Danse." The simple word stopped the Colonel in mid-sentence. "Trust me, I'm not going alone. I won't give him the satisfaction of playing his games any more." He turned to face Nick Valentine, "Ride with me again, old friend?"

"Always." The synth didn't hesitate a moment, "Let me get my .44 and some smokes and we'll be on our way."

"Take Strong," Hancock of all people insisted, "We need someone watching your back and we can do without him. You can't."

Alexander nodded, the analysis was sound, "Alright, Danse, Strong and I will follow up this lead and see where it take us. Danse, Hancock? I'm leaving you in full command of the Minutemen until I return. If everything goes to shit while I'm out you two have full command. You are me. Understand?" In that moment no one missed Preston Garvey more than those two, yet both men knew their duty to the United Commonwealth and would not shirk it.

"Godspeed General Blackwood," Danse saluted sharply, "And Ad Victorium. Know nothing but victory."

Hancock was less elegant, "Kick some ass."

Nick split off immediately to find Strong and his required supplies. Alexander instead went straight to his shed, removing the General's uniform from the mannequin. If Pickman wanted a spectacle he'd get one. He loaded his Remington revolver and shoved it at his side, drew the Shem Drowe sword before slamming it into the scabbard. An old double-barrel shotgun, still faithful after all these years was slung over his shoulder. Finally he felt ready, finally he'd have answers.

He paused a moment before an instinct he couldn't explain drove him back to the House of Tomorrow, to the battered red toolbox that held the darker artifacts he'd rather forget existed. He knelt before it, flipped open that lid and rifled through the contents. His eyes fell upon the dark dagger, the knife he'd received as a gift from a murderer, a weapon hidden out of shame and misplaced guilt. For reasons only God or the insane could fathom, General Blackwood took Pickman's blade and stuck it in a loop on his belt.

Somberly glancing towards the unkempt double bed that he had shared with his girlfriend all those days ago he made a vow, "God, it's me. Keep her safe until I get there, then give me the strength to tear that freak's head from his shoulders if need be." It wasn't a prayer that would have made old Father Gary happy, but even so, Alexander was sure God understood.

He left the house with renewed vigor and purpose, a spring in his step. With Nick at his side he'd solve this mystery, get Cait back and return in time to thrash a few raiders. Things were finally looking up.

The synthetic detective was waiting for him, yellow eyes glowing mysteriously behind the cloud of cigarette smoke. Beside him Strong stood tall in his oversized Minutemen uniform, a sledgehammer held in each hand resting casually on his shoulder like another man would carry a machete. "Ready to smash something? Strong ready!" He grinned a bloodthirsty grin that, once again, made Alexander glad the big mutant was on his side.

Despite the gravity of the situation, the General found himself agreeing, "Yeah, I think I am."

The trio was about to leave when one last figure came hustling through Sanctuary Hills towards them, another Super Mutant, a gatling laser clutched gingerly in both hands. "Fawkes?" Nick asked incredulously, "What're you doing here?"

The mutant nodded towards him, "Friend detective, I'm here to offer my aid. This puzzle has attracted my curiosity. I'd like to see it through to the end."

"The Lone Wanderer okay with this?" Alexander asked, he didn't want to violate any form of protocol between the Wastelanders and the Commonwealth but he was also happy to have another intellectual, and a Super Mutant besides, at his back."

"Charles signed off on this. We'll be back before any action and I serve little purpose in Sanctuary until these peace talks resume. I want to be useful, I want to help."

"Welcome aboard, Fawkes," Alexander shook the mutant's hand, cringing momentarily at the strength of his inhuman grip. After sensation returned to the limb, the Sole Survivor addressed his merry band, "Gentlemen. Join me on a museum tour?"

* * *

Charles was nervous. His hands were shaking, his collar damp with sweat. He couldn't be entirely clear but his old survivor's instincts were telling him the truth, something very wrong was about to happen.

Young James looked up at his father with wide eyes across the small room his family had been generously provided. The train car was one of many the Minutemen had repurposed into something Struges humorously called "Hotel Suites." Riley was passed out, snoring loudly with Theo across her legs and little Victoria in her arms, both children also passed out. Charles was sitting in an overstuffed armchair trying to take the edge off with a cigarette without success.

"Dad," James asked after a moment. Charles looked down at his eldest son, the spitting image somehow of both Riley and his namesake.

"Yeah," the word croaked out between two parched lips.

"Why are you scared?" The words rang out in the stillness, made more chilling by James' young innocence.

"I don't know Jamie, I don't know." Charles shook his head, "But I trust my instincts, and they're telling me this is about to get a whole lot worse before it gets better."

"Would having Uncle Fawkes here help?"

Charles chuckled, "I never really felt afraid with your uncle at my back, but I've got Charon and Jericho. We'll be fine. Fawkes feels like he has to help and I don't blame him. If you were missing I'd do anything to get you back. If your uncle can help Blackwood find his son how could I say no?"

In truth Charles himself wanted to run alongside the mutant and give Blackwood a hand, father to father, but once again that instinct held him back. He knew Fawkes was more than enough help for Blackwood and, at a certain point, adding bodies didn't make much difference. Besides all that, his instincts kept screaming at him to stay, to remain behind, and to help out with whatever was to come. Fawkes could handle himself.

James seemed lost in thought, eyes glancing nervously towards the floor, he'd seen the harsh reality of the Wasteland, of the world they now lived. If all went well, and with some luck, Charles hoped his young son wouldn't need to see any more.

A loud, hurried knock at the door reverberated throughout the train-car, jostling Riley awake and starting Victoria into tears. "Charles, its Jericho! Get your sorry ass up and outta bed, the Brotherhood's rolling in here with Vertibirds. Something's happening!" The hardened raider wasn't one given to nervousness or frivolous panic but he was clearly shaken.

Charles rose to his feet, even as Riley corralled the kids, attempting to get some semblance of order out of the madness. He flung open the train car's double door, momentarily blinking in the midday light. The glare wasn't something he'd anticipated. The leather-clad merc was waiting, Chinese Assault rifle already slung across his shoulder, hands clenching and unclenching into fists, a tell-tale sign of Jericho's nervous energy.

Clapping the bandit on the shoulder Charles did his best to appear confident. "Whatever this is, we've got it." Jericho nodded, smiled faintly, but didn't respond. That, more than anything, set Charles on the edge.

The air was alive with the sound of roaring engines and spinning motors as several vertibirds came rolling in, behind several that had already parked. Armored Paladins and unarmored Knights were moving about Sanctuary in numbers Charles hadn't seen since the attack.

"This is the invasion plan." Charles almost jumped at the voice in his ear. He'd been so preoccupied by the Power Armor he'd neglected his right side. He turned to identify the speaker. President Dave, of the meager and yet still standing Republic of Dave practically glowed with excitement. Ever since proudly fighting the raiders and "Echoing the battle cry of Dave" he'd been itching to do battle once again against the dark forces.

"I assume the full might of the Republic will take part in any action against the raiders?" Charles asked with a completely straight face. Behind him Riley snickered, amused by the crack despite the seriousness of the moment.

"But of course!" Dave responded proudly, once again blissfully unaware of any and all sarcasm. "Rest assured, The Republic takes this threat to the peace and stability of a new America seriously. We will be fighting bravely in the front line against any and all comers."

"Well, President Dave, I'm happy then to have you with us." That was at least true, Dave might ultimately be a well-intentioned lunatic, but one more gun was always welcome in a firefight, even if wield by the president of the Wasteland's smallest and least democratic Republic.

The crowd had gathered around the bazaar, now hastily converted into a speaker's platform. Colonel Danse, Hancock and a Brotherhood Paladin that Charles recognized as Kodiak of the Lyons Pride seemed to be the center of attention. Standing head and shoulders above the rest, Power Armor gleaming in the light.

"Men and women of DC! Men and women of the Commonwealth! This has been a trying time for us all, but at long last, we can close the book on this raider army and restore the peace so many have already died for!"

"Cut the crap, Kodiak! What's going on?" Charles shouted above the din, fingers twitching as he attempted to light a cigarette. Whether it was do to the cold or some hidden nervousness he honestly couldn't say, just that the sixth sense in the back of his mind was echoing like a siren, crying out to be heard.

"We've found them." The words were simple and yet powerfully delivered. There was no questions of who the them was. "What remains of this raider force is holed up within Salem. They've slowly been transforming that town into a fortress, armed with whatever they can get their grubby hands on, Synths, tech, firepower." The Lyons Pride warrior paused. "I will not lie, this will be a hard fought battle, but with all our enemies gathered in one area it'll be a simple thing to burn them out. We'll sleep well tonight!"

A small ripple moved throughout the crowd. Many were angry, hurting and desperate to get payback on this band of raiders and cutthroats. "What's the plan here?" Jericho, ever the pessimist, spat out, "We're just going to charge into this fortified position with our dicks flapping in the wind? I don't want to get cut down in the prime of my fifties." The sarcasm was palpable.

"Tone aside," Charles diplomatically added, "Jericho's right, assaulting the town without a plan is foolish."

Kodiak nodded, "I agree. The Codex makes it clear that battle without planning is a surefire path towards defeat. To that end, Elder Maxson is coordinating with your leadership team. All that we ask is that all available fighting forces be deployed towards Salem with all haste. The Brotherhood will coordinate artillery barrages and Vertibird attacks while we mobilize our heaviest equipment from Boston Airport."

"Heaviest equipment?" Jericho asked unsure of what exactly that entailed.

Despite his face being hidden behind a helmet, Charles could tell the Paladin was smiling. "The Predwyn is going to war."

* * *

"Are all systems green, Lance-Captain? We can afford no mistakes." Elder Maxson seemed tenser than usual, considering the circumstances it was hard to blame the man.

Kells turned his attention from the logistics panels to Maxson. "High Elder, everything is green. Guns loaded, vertibirds fueled and army ready to deploy." The Lance-Captain kept his face calm, posture straight, seeming despite the posture far more relaxed than Maxson, he was confident in the Predwyn and her crew. He knew every screw and bulkhead aboard her. With air superiority guaranteed over the foe and ground forces all but unstoppable Kells was confident the onrushing battle would be one-sided and brief. Maxson couldn't seem to maintain that same confidence.

"I wish I was planning this attack with Blackwood," he grumbled, only loud enough for Kells to hear. The rest of the bridge crew continued with the Herculean task of moving the massive weapon of war through the sky, blissfully ignorant of the Elder's concerns. "Planning this attack with those…things, Blackwood considers lieutenants was disconcerting."

"Respectfully, Elder Maxson," Kells responded in an equally low tone, "All the cards are in our favor. I agree I'd prefer to work alongside Blackwood for this mission, however, this battle could be won by dead men."

A rap on the metal door cut through the men's conversation. The knock was determined and forceful, as if the simple action of knocking on the sheet metal door would throw it open. A knock of that ferocity could only be traced back to one woman.

"Come in, Sarah," Maxson loudly answered the knock, continuing to glance over the command panels.

"Wasn't asking for permission, just knocking out of courtesy," Sarah Lyons responded sarcastically, making her way onto the bridge. The standard Brotherhood jumpsuit clung tightly to her athletic frame, leaving little to the imagination, a distraction the Elder could ill afford. "What's my role? Everyone else is getting suited up."

Maxson looked over at Kells and finally back towards Sarah. "You're staying aboard the ship."

That didn't sit well with her. "The hell I am." She folded her arms defiantly, staring Arthur Maxson down like he was little more than a slug worthy of being crushed under foot. "You can't keep me out of the action."

Kells glanced across the room at Maxson, giving the slightest of headshakes. It was no question between the two men. "Sarah, that's not feasible. We need you here." Maxson looked down towards the charts, already summoning his squires with his Power Armor. "I need someone behind I can trust."

"Right, because that's me right now." The sarcasm was palatable.

"Yes. You are the only clear choice for Elder should I pass. Besides that, I've noticed the frequent headaches. Stay aboard and get better. That's an order."

"Look Arthur…" Sarah stood tall and proud, aching his heart with her cold beauty. "If you think you can order me to stay you've got another thing saying. The Pride and I are going to war…"

Arthur Maxson, Elder and man, did something in that moment that surprised both of them. He cross the room leaned in close and kissed Sarah, deeply on her lips. The woman instinctively closed her eyes and returned the kiss. After a moment he leaned back and Sarah's face took on a much less pleasant expression. "Sarah, please."

The daughter of Owen Lyons rubbed her temple with her thumbs, squinting in pain caused by yet another headache, confused by her own response to Maxson's actions, frustrated by so much. In the end she relented. "I'll stay."

"Thank you."

Kells coughed, reminding both he was still present. "Elder Maxson, Vertibirds ready to fly on your orders. Rothchild is reporting that Liberty Prime is powered up and ready to lead the assault."

Arthur Maxson smiled. "You have my order Kells, take the Predwyn to war."

"With pleasure."

* * *

Molly had been a Gunner her whole life, she'd followed Tucker, without comment, without complaint, without needing anything, he simply inspired her. He was amazing, dashing, smart and handsome beyond belief. And now he was gone, ripped away by Carson's vanity. She'd hobbled to Sanctuary Hills with a bullet embedded in her sternum in an attempt to get the warning out, but she'd failed in that regard too. Yet Molly had survived, on pure hated alone. None had questioned her when she took up her MP-40 and went to join the Minutemen's advancing forces, making their way towards the town of Salem, and the final battle against this force of unified raiders.

She knew Carson was alive, still standing active with the others raiders. That was good, it meant she could take his head herself.

Beneath her bandana the faintest of smiles crossed Molly's lips, she'd have vengeance for Tucker and it would taste so sweet.

* * *

Colonel Danse led from the front. That was how he'd be taught by the Codex and Maxson. It was something that Alexander Blackwood had reinforced, the General fighting side by side with the Brotherhood Paladin on more than one occasion, defending others with his own flesh if need be. Danse admired him, more than he let anyone, ever Alexander, know. There was something about the man, a purity, an essence of doing right that the conflicted Synth desired to emulate. Blackwood made him a better man, and he'd repay him with this victorious offensive.

By the time Alexander got back from his investigation, the raiders would be smashed and the Commonwealth would be safe at last.

Hancock stood beside him, accompanied by Fahrenheit and a company of the Neighborhood Watch, Tommy Guns and Browning's loaded. An army of Minutemen, joined by the fighters from the Capital Wasteland, marched towards Salem, fifes and drums accompanying the army like the warriors of old, the flags of several units flying in the wind. Danse admired the pageantry, loved it, would be more precise. The flag of the Minutemen would fly high over Salem before he was finished that day.

It was a simple plan, one based on overwhelming firepower. Begin with an artillery barrage and accompany with an aerial assault, follow up with infantry. It was a simple, albeit effective, strategy, and Danse was confident in the strength of his men and his planning, it would work.

The distance to Salem was growing shorter yet, soon they'd be in range. Already, Riley and her Rangers had moved ahead with several smoke grenades, ready to paint the town as a target for artillery fire.

He was a man of grim purpose. A man of determination. He was a man who was ready for this to end.

* * *

"It's time." Obadiah Blackhall announced loudly to the other members of the sacred council. "The stars are aligned, the material is in place. I will begin the incantations in the ritual room."

"It's daylight." Littlehorn added, as if it were not obvious to Blackhall, "This is hardly ideal…"

"Ug-Qualtoth spoke!" The killer chattered, the tiny man's bloodlust evident in his eyes, "The ever-changing one has changed the environment! He has changed the time! Do not doubt the prophet!"

Blackhall closed his eyes momentarily, leaning himself against his ancient staff, drawing in the dark energy around him. "Our enemies draw near. They mustn't be allowed to interrupt."

"Our men on the surface will buy us time…" Littlehorn began, demonstrating an unrealistic level of confidence in their meager forces that none of the others believed in.

"Not enough for the ritual to be completed and for Ug-Qualtoth to enter in the physical realm, remaking the world in his image as we intend." Obadiah was deadly serious in his words. "Doctor, I believe it is time."

The bearded man smiled.

* * *

Porter Gage stood in the Vault's hallway, shivering, weapon clutched tightly in his hands and regretting his decision to stick around as long as he did. "I should've run. I'd be halfway to The Pitt by now." He mumbled to the suffocating stillness of the Vault around him, mindful not to raise his voice loud enough to attract the attention of his mysterious patron.

 _If I ran he'd find me. I don't think he's human. No human gives me the chills like he does._

The man in the suit stressed how important it was for destiny that Gage hold his place in the hallway, handmade rifle pointing deeper into the Vault. What the suited man expected to come up toward's Gage was never made clear. Regardless, Gage was starting to wonder how he was going to make it out of this one…

"Killed by the man in the suit? Or Blackwood's forces? Tough call…"

Had Gage been aware of the identity of his quiet employer with the sickly-sweet voice it wouldn't have been so difficult a decision.

* * *

Alexander Blackwood dashed into Concord with Remington loaded and blade drawn. His coat and armor was clean and prepared, weapons loaded and sharpened. He wanted to strike an imposing figure and give Pickman a good impression, right before he cut off that murderer's head.

Concord was silent as the grave, wind whistling by uninterrupted save for the huffing and puffing of his Super Mutant companions and the near inaudible whirring and clicking of servos from Nick Valentine.

The Concord Museum was just as massive as it had been that first time when he met Preston Garvey all those many months ago but now things were different, he was different, Garvey was comatose and a psychopath had taken his son.

"You made a big mistake, Pickman." Alexander growled under his breath, careful not to let the others hear, "But I guarantee it will be your last."

Turning to face the others, he spoke again with audible volume. "Come on lads. Let's not keep the crazy man waiting."

So they advanced, unaware of what was about to befall them.

* * *

 _Alexander Blackwood's Journal_

 _Memories are a hell of a drug, an unstoppable collection of "what-ifs" and "if-I'd-onlys." Coming back to Concord made me realize where I'd come from, what had happened so long ago. It was intoxicating, pain and pleasure in equal amounts. Then I was looking for me son, now the process repeats itself. The Lord loves his irony._

 _This time will be different. I'm done dwelling, Shaun, I promise you this, I will get you out of there and keep you save, that's a promise._


	15. FUBAR

**Chapter 15**

 _This is it! This is the moment! Years of planning, of calculating are finally coming to fruition. It'll be a brutal slog, tough, with lives ruined beyond compare. Yet if I get what I desire the price will have been worth it. I'd glad pay any price, sacrifice any life to achieve my goal.._

* * *

Obadiah Blackhall knelt in the circle, the thirteen black candles spitting dark smoke towards Vault 66's arched ceiling. The pentagrams had been drawn appropriately in the sacred inks and the blood of the non-believers sprinkled around the exterior for the appropriate protection.

He'd sat the Bunsen burner in the center of the middle pentagram, holding the metal bowl of sacred components above it. Normally the ritual would have worked better with an actual open fire but alas, getting one lit inside the Vault was proving difficult and so the Bunsen had to do. Though if the barrier was broken and Ug-Qualtoth entered through into the mortal plain Blackhall doubted that the god would care.

The words were muttered softly, his staff and dagger at the ready, hood low around his shoulders. He was in a haze, his mind slowly fading in and out of active consciousness. His connection to the beyond, the dark spaces of reality that existed on the fringes of conscious thought was almost physical, his soul moving in and out of the two plains. He was close now, so close. However, close wouldn't cut it when it came to the matters of gods and realities. The stars had to be exactly right; the symbols had to be exactly put down in their entirety. A simple mistake would spell utter disaster

A drop of sweat ran down his wrinkled head and splattered against the Vault's floor. A slight grimace and grunt of displeasure escaped his lips. He needed to focus.

The Doctor and the Killer rushed into his chambers, shattering that focus. "It should have been bigger!" The miniature murderer in the clown mask howled at the top of his lungs, brandishing the razor-edged blade aggressively in the direction of Ug-Qualtoth's High Priest, "We were promised something bigger!"

Ignoring the madness of his colleague as he often did, the Doctor spoke, "High Priest, our motion scanners have detected movement, both aerial and ground based. It's an attacking force, far larger than our defenses will be able to hold." Even as he spoke the ground began to shake and the ancient vault rumbled, a cascade of dust falling from above. Blackhall let it coat him without comment.

"The thunder of the guns! The thunder of the guns!" The Killer sang, dancing around the room like a macabre jester, "They've come to ring the bells!"

"That would be the Minutemen artillery barrage," the Doctor commented casually, as if discussing the weather. "We should be safe beneath the waves here, at least momentarily. A spare round could punch through the glass, though the odds are unlikely such a shot would hit us."

"And the raiders? Institute remnants? Littlehorn's men?" Blackhall didn't open his eyes, continuing the ritual motions as best he could despite the interruption.

"They'll buy us some time…but there is a complication."

At this Blackhall's eyes snapped open. "Which is?" He turned towards the doctor with a glare, meeting his expression with an unwavering gaze?

"Pickman, your unholiness. We can't find him."

"Damn it." Blackhall growled under his breath. "I assume we don't have the components he was supposed to acquire?"

"No such luck." The bad news kept on rolling. "We should assume he is dead, unless Ug-Qualtoth's Artist makes an appearance in the flesh."

"We'll have to improvise," Blackhall announced, cutting off his fellow cultist. "The portal will be unstable, improperly set but it should get the job done as best we can." He turned to the Killer, "Bring me two men and one woman from among our ranks. I do not care what excuse you use, I need them down here unharmed and undrugged. The men must be born in March and the woman July. Go."

The clown didn't wait for instruction before scampering off into the darkness.

"One more thing." The Doctor stated, as if he hadn't done enough to disrupt the older man's plans. Obadiah groaned but said nothing. "The Brotherhood of Steel is leading the attack. They've brought every weapon they have. I recommend deploying our countermeasure."

Obadiah turned towards his associate. With the utmost exasperation he stated, "Really? Do you think that?" The vault shook again as another shell impacted in the town approve, providing an explosive point to his argument.

* * *

The shell exploded not three feet from him. Mason was thrown backward through the air, pants around his ankles, powerful body covered in scrapes and bruises. Ears, ringing, body stinging from a thousand cuts, the Pack Alpha tried to regain his footing.

The female he was rutting had been annihilated of course, her body a red past on the sleeping bag. A shame; she'd been one of The Pack's more tolerable females in terms of physical appearance. He'd been mostly unharmed but Salem had taken its first round of artillery fire. There was bound to be more.

Pulling up his pants and snapping up his homemade rifle from the wall rack, Mason staggered out of the smoldering remains of the house onto the street. Various raiders and Gen 1 Synths mulled about but none of them seemed entirely sure how to respond. Grabbing the shoulder of a nearby Talon Company merc, Mason screamed at the little man, "What the hell's going on? Give me an update!"

The merc's eyes were wide, "It's an attack man! An all out attack! The Minutemen are bombing us man! Shit!"

The telltale screech of falling shells filled the air and both men uttered the same profanity. "SHIT!" Mason flung himself aside, missing yet another lethal explosion as the artillery struck a nearby building. Salem wasn't well maintained at the best of times and the high explosive shell wasn't helping. Yet even as the building collapsed Mason was moving. "Pack! Pack on me! Get the RPGS! Get on the guns! WE'VE GOT A FIGHT ON OUR HANDS!" The big man leaned back and howled his war cry to the sky. He heard the sound of his pack answering, howling their bestial response as one, several small arms beginning to fire in the direction of the shelling.

Yet as Mason got a good look at the sky he saw something that chilled even his near feral bones. It wasn't the score of vertibirds that came rushing towards them, though that didn't do much for his confidence. Nor was it the sight of the Predwyn, that great flying fortress of the Brotherhood of Steel, which filled him utter dread. No, it was the towering behemoth of metal in the shape of man slowly thundering across the plains as it walked slowly, purposely towards its enemies. Something told Mason the massive robot would not be so easily shot down. Its eyes shone with the light of energy and, louder than every other sound that could be heard, somehow cutting through the din of the battle. That sound, so deafening in its intensity emitted from the mighty machine.

"AMERICA WILL NEVER FALL TO COMMUNIST INVASION!"

* * *

 **Targeting Acquired…**

 **Energy Levels at 95.343212 percent.**

 **Analysis?**

 **More than enough energy to destroy any of America's enemies.**

 **Excellent!**

 **Scanning for targets.**

 **Numerous communist Chinese located within Salem's defenses…**

 **Analysis?**

 **40%...**

 **67%...**

 **93%...**

 **Completed.**

 **Targets locked! Active…Eye Lasers!**

 **Scanning…completed.**

 **Target annihilated.**

 **Deploy mental countermeasures at maximum efficiency.**

" **Death is a preferable alternative to communism!"**

* * *

Danse put down his binoculars and whistled. "Damn. I'll never stop being impressed by Liberty Prime." He shook his head as the war machine deployed a salvo of rockets. "It's a wonder they don't start fleeing now."

"They probably have." Duke didn't meet Danse's gaze, his hands shackled before him, wearing nothing but the jumpsuit provided to protect his modesty if nothing else. Sgt Colder, proud Minuteman and former Enclave Hellfire, was simply a shell, observing, but not seeing.

Danse still couldn't believe it, didn't want to. Duke was…dare he admit it? Duke was his friend, misguided though some old loyalties may have been.

After all, hadn't he almost thrown his life away on Maxson's orders? Alexander had given him a chance and Danse would do the same for Duke. Part of him knew he should have left Colder back at Sanctuary Hills but some old instinct, perhaps a programmed idea, suggested that he bring Duke along. Perhaps Danse was hoping for some insight the other man could gleam or tactical analysis he could provide. Any way to help with the battle that would look favorably on Duke when it came time to determine the man's fate.

So far he wasn't helpful.

"I never saw him in action, you know." Colder looked on at Liberty Prime with barely contained horror, "I saw the reports, the video footage, every one of us did. But to see him in person…" The man shook his head, "No wonder Colonel Autumn couldn't hold the Brotherhood back in DC; I don't think there's a weapon left on God's shattered earth that could bring that metal monster down."

"We've got those bastards now, Duke." Danse was confident, perhaps even a bit cocky. "The artillery barrage will have softened them up good. The combined air and ground invasion, with Prime as the tip of the spear…Hannibal himself couldn't have done better."

"Having a blimp doesn't hurt either," Duke responded with a touch of amusement, nodding towards the Predwyn flying low over Salem. There were more than enough guns aboard that mighty vessel to flatten Salem twice over.

"We don't take chances Colder," Danse responded with grim determination, glancing though the binoculars once again to take stock of the situation. "And she's a zeppelin." His attack plan was going off without a hitch, time to check with the skirmishers. Leaning towards the radio, Danse called in, "Sheriff Simms? How's it going on the ground?"

The response crackled over the radio from Megaton's Sheriff, "Light resistance so far on the outskirts. If we don't get control of the rooftops and fast it's going to be ugly street fighting. Lots of traps."

"Keep your heads." Danse killed the radio before switching frequency to the Lone Wanderer, "Charles, what's the few from the sky?"

"We're about to touch down now, place is crawling with goons and…Harkness? Where the hell are you going?"

"Respond!" Danse cut through the chatter, "What's going on out there?"

"Harkness just bailed! Jumped out of the 'bird and made a dash into the city, I couldn't stop him!"

"Just stay on target! We need to take those rooftops! Harkness has to figure out what he's doing on his own. You need to take those rooftops!"

The bulk of his army was waiting behind him, ready to deploy when he gave the word. He wanted to lead them, but something suggested he stay in this position, perhaps the vantage point? Regardless, Simms had his orders not to advance too deep into the city until the shelling stopped. The odd Minutemen shell wouldn't do much to Prime after all.

Danse shut the link a final time and shook his head. Harkness was a professional, a trained defender of Rivet. That he would go AWOL? It was disconcerting at best.

 _Why do I feel that things will go terribly wrong?_

* * *

It had been too long since he'd been in Power Armor. Elder Maxson, despite his outward certainty, was a man with many doubts. Doubts about the righteousness of his cause and doubts of his worthiness to lead. His position as Elder constantly clouded his mind and beat against his judgment. Yet when he slipped into his Power Armor, felt the solid force of metal he possessed while gripping the handle of his Gattling laser all that doubt faded away.

On the battlefield things were simple, kill or be killed. Maxson had slain a deathclaw at 12, he didn't struggle with killing.

His helmet was in his hand as he gave Kells and Rothchild their final instructions. "Do not bring the Prydwen down, no matter what happens. We can't risk the riff-raff getting aboard her. If one of these bandits makes off with our tech we could have a new overlord on our hands and that's no good."

"Very good, Elder," Kells replied with a salute.

"Stay high enough to allow vertibirds to refuel safely. I doubt we'll need a second wave of attack but if we do I want them ready to go asap."

"Should we use the cannons?" Head Scribe Rothchild asked with something that sounded suspiciously like enthusiasm.

"If the need arises."

The Head Scribe actually rubbed his hands together, "I'll be discrete…"

* * *

Dr Zimmer slipped an energy cell into his laser pistol with the determined precision of someone unafraid of violence. Double checking its charge, the elderly Institute scientist slipped the weapon onto his belt.

As the shelling continued, as the vertibirds shook the air around him and the raiders began shouting to one another, the doctor calmly loaded any files he had left about the Institute's various projects into a briefcase. As the echoing of rockets and the rumbling words of a mountainous robot shattered the air, Zimmer adjusted his tie and fetched the remote communicator from its place beneath his bunk.

The flap to his tent flew open and Armitage strode in, his Courser's coat flapping. The variety of weapons, blunt, bullet and laser, gave the doctor quite the sense of security. "Doctor, the situation is critical."

"I noticed, Armitage." He snapped the briefcase shut, "I believe our partnership with these goons has come to an end. We should leave while the possibility still remains that we can."

 _It is a shame to interrupt this partnership so soon, but the Institute can still be saved._

"Shall I gather XV-49 and X6-88?" Armitage asked, double checking the battery cell within his double-barreled laser rifle before drawing his combat knife. As he sharpened the razor-edged blade further the Courser continued, "And any other Institute personal I come across?"

"If any remain alive," Zimmer answered without much optimism. "Your fellow Coursers likely survived the initial chaos but after Doctor Ayo's unfortunate…missteps. It seems the few junior scientists left either fled or have been killed." He sighed once, deeply, drawing a dry breath through his ancient nose that wheezed like a jet turbine. "Round up the Gen ones that remain and meet me by the Triggerman tent. We'll move in five." Snatching the revolver hidden within the bottom drawer of his desk, Zimmer loaded it and slipped it within the pocket of his lab coat.

He was halfway to the exit himself when Armitage hissed, "Doctor! Get down, movement!" A burst of automatic rifle fire ripped through the tent, shattering test tubes and smashing computer screens. Armitage returned fire, the laser rifle burning several holes through the canvas and setting a good portion alight.

The rifle fire ceased and Armitage stated confidently, "Flee out the back doctor, I'll keep you covered. This target is eliminated."

Dr Zimmer wasn't one to ignore the sound advice of his bodyguard and moved towards the exit flap. It was then he heard a voice he wasn't expecting. "I'm not so easily killed doctor Zimmer."

Curiosity got the better of the doctor and he turned his attention back towards the entrance. Despite the hole burnt through his lower leg the man was in excellent appearance. Though, despite appearances, Zimmer knew his attacker was far from human.

"You came a long way to settle a score with me, Doctor Zimmer, pity it didn't work out the way you planed."

After staring at the unfamiliar face for a moment realization dawned over the head of the Institute. "You."

Harkness, as he called himself, the Rivet City security officer and runaway synth, smiled. "In the flesh, though you won't be in yours much longer when I'm done."

Armitage snarled and aimed his laser rifle. "Obviously we failed to eliminate you back in the Wasteland. That minor issue should be rectified with most haste."

Despite the desperate circumstances Zimmer couldn't help but agree. "Listen to me Armitage, I don't make wasted trips. Finish what we set out to do."

The Courser cracked his neck, "Gladly."

Harkness, for his part, didn't seem imitated. "You've always been second best Armitage, let's finish this."

As the two synths opened fire, running towards each other far quicker than any organic could replicate, Zimmer slipped out the back flap.

He had no doubt that his Courser would defeat the renegade synth and return to his side. No doubt at all. Still he didn't want to be anywhere near that fight…

 _Is that because I'm afraid?_

* * *

The two Pack raiders beside him disintegrated beneath the metal titan's eyebeams. The thundering voice boomed across Salem, "AMERICA WILL NEVER FALL TO COMMUNIST INVASION!"

Despite knowing the futility of the act, Mason was not a man to simply lie down and die. Howling like a hurricane, he aimed his homemade rifle and held the trigger down. If Liberty Prime noticed the bullets pattering against his leg he didn't show it, plowing forward determinedly and shattering a building under foot.

Slamming a replacement magazine into his weapon, the Pack Alpha dropped into cover long enough to catch his breath.

"YOUR RESISTANCE IS FUTILE! YOU'VE ALREADY BEEN DEFEATED!"

An explosion in a nearby building silenced the mounted gun that formerly pelted the massive robot, likely the result of Liberty Prime's mini nukes, yet another weapon that damn robot had.

Mason wasn't one to run from a fight, he never had before but this situation was looking more and more unwinnable. The Minutemen and Brotherhood hadn't even launched an actual attack with ground forces, beyond some skirmishers, but the combination of shelling and Liberty Prime seemed to be more than enough to grind up the remaining raider and Institute forces.

"If that damn suit doesn't whip up some goddamn miracle we'll all be boiling in hell within five," Mason growled to the emptiness around him before rising above his cover and firing on the robot again.

Liberty Prime didn't notice the small arms fire. Indeed, it would take something truly massive to attract his attention.

* * *

Vault 66 shook again, the rumblings of the Brotherhood's attack robot could so clearly be heard, despite the water and concrete separating the faithful from heretic, keeping Blackhall from the outside and letting him concentrate. He was not ready. Even as the blood from the sacrifices cooled on his blade and he chanted that ancient, mystic tongue to Ug-qualtoth there was not enough time.

It was the Doctor's task to create time for his collogue. To ensure that Obadiah Blackhall, High Priest of the ever changing one, could complete the ritual as best he could given the terrible circumstances.

The Doctor was a genius; not one of his colleagues would deny that truth. However, the work that would save them was not truly his own. He was a mere apprentice to the Surgeon of Red Rider, that brilliant man who controlled mutant and ghoul, man and beast with the power of sorcerous science. The Surgeon's career may have been cut tragically short by the interference of the Lone Wanderer but his greatest creation was still hidden in plain sight, ready for deployment at a moment's notice.

In his haste to flee that building Charles had missed that ultimate prize, that piece that would tip the scales in Ug-Qualtoth's favor once and for all.

Reaching into his pocket he withdrew the control pad. Such a simple looking device it was, almost pathetic in its size, yet it had shaped the army and Red Rider, and it would shape her too.

"Ug-Qualtoth guide me," he whispered and hit the button.

* * *

Sarah Lyons was standing on the bridge, arms folded, itching to get stuck in. Kells and Rothchild were focused on commanding the Prydwen, Arthur was already heading for a Vertibird along with the majority of the Paladins, even lower ranking initiates were deploying and yet her she was. Stuck.

The laser rifle on his back weighed heavily, itching to be used as the sweat pooled on the back of her neck. Her jumpsuit always felt clammy before a fight. Honestly, did anyone sweat worse than her?

To make matters worse that damn headache was back, pounding away at her skull and driving her nearly to tears.

She'd have given anything for a clear head. It was impossible to think straight, the pain was mounting in intensity, growing stronger as each moment passed. She pressed her thumbs against her temples, growling low at the headache to leave. She had to remain focused, the Pride could be called into action again, whether Arthur admitted it or not he'd need her. The last thing Sarah wanted was a foggy mind when she rolled into action. She needed to be sharp, like a razor.

Then her mind cleared. The headache stopped.

She knew what to do.

Without alerting Kells or Rothchild, Sarah slipped away from the bridge. It wouldn't do to bothering them with this issue after all. The zeppelin was largely abandoned anyway, just a skeleton crew and numerous warriors preparing up on the main deck, she shouldn't be bothered during her little errand.

The halls of the Prydwen were lit by the glow of the crimson emergency lights, flashing the alert to the crew that it was all hands on deck as they moved towards battle stations. A blaring alert siren echoed throughout the metallic beast giving a reminder just in case the lights were not enough.

The ladder was before her in a moment and she was sliding down to the lower decks with practiced ease. Rungs and levels vanished by as she descended into the guts of the aerial monstrosity, down to the lowest decks where the Prydwen's engines rested.

Instinctively she stopped at the engine block, exiting the ladder without thinking too deeply. This is where she was needed. This was where she could be the most help.

The few engineers down on this deck were unaware of her arrival; why wouldn't they be? They weren't expecting anyone's arrival. Good. That would make this all the easier.

A voice in her head, soft, subtle, but present, suggested she gun the unsuspecting men down. It would be easy. Three sharp laser blasts, three corpses. No mess and no fuss.

Yet she resisted the strange idea. Killing the men was unnecessary and unlike her.

Leaving the laser rifle on her back, Sarah Lyons approached the nearest man. The Scribe never saw the fist that slammed into the back of his skull, dropping him to the deck. The second Scribe was in the process of turning when Sarah's calloused fist struck him in the fleshy abdomen, doubling the man over. Smashing her knee against his head proved enough to end his interference.

The final man was too far away to be dropped as quickly as his predecessors. Turning to face his attacker, drawing a 10 mm sub-machine gun from his belt as he did, the Scribe's face proved a picture of shock and horror when he saw Sarah.

He hesitated.

A mistake.

Lashing out with her left hand, Sarah knocked the Scribe's gun away while striking out with her right. Catching the side of the Scribe's head in her open right hand, Sarah drove it down hard, smashing the man's head against the guard rail. Only as the third and final Scribe hit the ground did she draw her laser rifle, advancing towards the generators the powered the mighty Prydwen.

She didn't aim so much as spray, holding down the trigger and spewing bolts of laser energy into the sensitive equipment. Sparks flew as the critical systems began melting beneath the barrage of laser fire. Emergency sirens began screeching about the failures as the Prydwen tried to switch to emergency backup.

After Sarah melted the primary engine core she turned her attention to those backups. The backup generators failed to survive the assault and exploded, giving up the ghost in a shower of sparks and smoke.

It was only after the backup failed and her laser rifle ran dry that Sarah final realized what she'd done.

She didn't have long to ponder it before the zeppelin fell.

* * *

The Doctor smiled. He didn't have to go to a window to see the effects of his predecessor's work. The effects would be imminent.

 _That ought to buy some time._

* * *

Arthur Maxson, elder of the Brotherhood of Steel was about to board his vertibird when the Prydwen shook violently. "What the hell was that? Kells?" He barked into his two-way radio.

"Power surge Elder Maxson. We're reading power failures across the boards…"  
The Prydwen bucked wildly as the exterior lights failed. The mighty engines suddenly came to a furious halt. The silence was deafening.

In that brief moment the Prydwen hung in the air, suspended by momentum. "Helmets on!" Maxson roared, following his own advice as the zeppelin bucked again before tipping forward and plummeting.

Unfortunately for Arthur Maxson the last shake of the mighty Prydwen threw him over the ramp.

Time flew and slowed as he free fell hundreds of feet through the air. His HUD showed all systems good, a small miracle. Power Armor was sturdy but that was a long fall, even within his customized suit, specially worked over by Proctor Ingram and reinforced with the finest materials.

Maxson saw the Prydwen falling, noted the few vertibirds managing to dislodge themselves from the hulk as it sank. He noted other Power Armored Paladins taking their chances and jumping over the side in the hope their armor would break the fall. Others he could see, mere specks highlighted by his HUD, clutching the railings and praying they would survive the crash.

Then he lost sight of his beloved zeppelin as the ground rushed up to meet him. Maxson closed his eyes and hoped something would break his fall. Or, at the very least, his armor would hold up.

* * *

"Holy shit! The Prydwen!" Charles screamed, leaning out from his vertibird to watch the Brotherhood of Steel fall from grace. "She's going down!" The panic in his voice was real, the horror evident.

Molly seemed shocked by the fall of the Prydwen. Even stoic Charon seemed stunned, staring outward in shock. Jericho swore violently under his breath and President Dave looked on in horror.

"Danse! The goddamn Prydwen is going down! What the hell are we supposed to do now? We've lost the goddamn Prydwen!" Charles roared into his radio, as if Colonel Danse wasn't aware the whole plan had fallen apart.

There was silence on the line.

"Look Danse," Jericho howled, "We are fubar here! Everything's just gone tits up! What the hell do we do?"

From the street below the triumphant roars of the raider army could be heard and the first few began taking potshots at the vertibirds with small arms fire. It wouldn't be long before rockets and grenades began making their way towards the advancing Minutemen and Wasteland forces.

"What do we do Danse?" Charles repeated, "Can you hear me? Is this connection still good?" The Lone Wanderer slammed his fist against the 'bird's radio.

The speaker crackled to life and Danse's voice, sounding more shaken than any in the Vertibird had ever heard it. "Yeah, I'm here."

"So what do we do?" Jericho repeated the question, failing miserably to keep the panic from his voice.

There was a pause.

"The only thing we can do," Danse announced, "Attack. Everyone attack! Everyone go! It's now or never!"

* * *

 **Communist target…disintegrated.**

 **Power readings at 92.333456%**

 **Analysis…**

 **Power remaining at acceptable levels.**

 **ALERT! ALERT! PRIORITY ONE ALERT!**

 **…..overriding all other commands.**

 **Preserve Brotherhood assets at all costs…**

 **Response?**

 **Considering options…**

 **31%**

 **67%**

 **98%**

 **Options calculated.**

 **Disengage!**

* * *

The Prydwen hadn't hit the ground yet but it was falling fast. It would be over in mere moments. Charles knew there where more than enough explosives on board to ensure a devastating explosion when that zeppelin struck earth. No one aboard was going to survive that.

He was already saying his prayers for the fallen Brotherhood warriors when it happened. Something he never would have in a million years guessed.

The ground shook as, before his very eyes, Liberty Prime dashed across Salem. The robot knocked aside several smaller buildings and crashed through a raider machine gun nest before arriving beneath the plummeting Prydwen. Holding his arms out like a father at the bottom of the stairs before catching a child, Liberty Prime braced himself against the ground. The Prydwen slammed into his arms, dislodging several unfortunate souls still too close to the zeppelin's edge. Prime was forced backward by the impact, his feet tearing massive gouges in the earth as metallic arms strained. "DAMAGE IMMENSE. SYSTEM OVERLOADING. CANNOT MAINTAIN FOR MUCH LONGER. WEIGHT CAPACITY OVERLOADED." Still, despite Liberty Prime's announcement the robot held the Prydwen by the nose, keeping it upward despite the enormity of its weight. The mechanical arms strained and Prime buckled but he held.

But for how long?

"You heard Danse!" Charles shouted at the pilot, "Take us in, we have a city to win! This ends once and for all."  
Even as the Vertibird began flying towards the nearest rooftop Charles watched Liberty Prime shift the Prydwen slightly in an attempt to set it down gently. That would prove easier said than done…and Prime was slipping.

With the Prydwen and Prime both out of commission the battle for Salem had become suddenly much more interesting, and dangerous.

* * *

 _Alexander Blackwood's Journal_

 _There was something I remember learning in the army. My old drill sergeant, grizzled slab of meat that he was, told me "No plan survives first contact with the enemy." He wasn't the first soldier to say that and he won't be the last. War…war never changes._

 _It's not about the strength of the plan, though I wouldn't ever advocate "winging it" it's the capability to work on the fly, to adjust to the challenges, that make one truly exceptional._

 _That's why I left Danse in charge of this operation, I know he's up to the task, he can handle this command._

 _I just hope he realizes it too…_

 _Before it's too late for all of us…_

* * *

 **AN: I know it's been a bit. Sorry about that. I wanted to try something different with the writing of this chapter to get across the idea of the chaos of war. Hence the short scenes. Let me know your thoughts on that. Also, now we know why Sarah survived. But will the Predwyn? You'll have to wait and see.**


	16. Said the Spider to the Fly

_The moment long awaited is finally at hand. It has come far sooner than I would have imagined but it tastes just as sweet as I dreamed it. I wish a moment could be bottled up like the finest wine and savored just as long because this will be a delectable moment. Mmmmm, I can taste it already._

* * *

"Man, I wish this headache were a hangover, at least then I'd have gotten something outta it, eh?" Cait groggily announced to the darkness around her. "Seriously Shaun, how long we been in this shite huh?" Her wrists were chaffed raw and covered in her dried blood, her clothes stained with the vomit that continually worked its way though her mouth until nothing but dry heaves remained. Her body was wracked with cramps. It could have been ten minutes, ten days or ten years as time seemed to hold no meaning in the utter darkness, despite her attempts at getting Shaun to talk. Honestly it was mostly an attempt to keep him sane…

"I don't know Cait," the voice in the darkness that belonged to her man's son said meekly, "But I'm afraid." There was finality in the voice that suggested Shaun was close to giving up, having accepted his lot in life to die some wasting death alone in the darkness. It wasn't comforting.

 _Don't give up Shaun… Bah, to think I'd have gotten soft on this bucket of bolts, damn girl you used to kill people with your bare hands…_

"Shaun, look just hold on okay, I know things seem bad, but trust me, I've climbed back from worse than this…I'll think of something."

"Really?" The voice was lacking serious optimism, rather a polite determination to at least act like he believed her even if the young boy knew it was foolish to hope.

"You bet kiddo, just let me old Irish luck kick in and I'll…I'll…" Cait didn't get to finish that sentence as a bout of dry heaving wracked her body with intense pain rattling her frame against the shackles. Something wrenched painfully insider her, then shooting pain in a shoulder and hip, though mercifully neither dislocated. It carried on longer than she'd have imagined possible before finally, mercifully, ending with one last heave.

Cait spat a wad of dark blood onto the floor; evidentially she'd bitten the inside of her cheek during that last spasm. "More coppery than I remember," she muttered, "Been a bit since I taste the good stuff…"

The room had been so dark for so long that her eyes had adjusted near perfectly to the darkness. So when the gas began leaking in through the vents that sickly green color, nearly invisible in the shadows, stuck out to her like a sore thumb.

"You bastards! You sick sons of bitches! Gassing a kid! Are you really that wicked?" She screamed and screamed until her voice went raw from the effort but no one answered her. Not a breath. In time she found her eyelids droop and a new darkness overtook her. The darkness of utter oblivion.

* * *

Porter Gage listened to Cait's screams of rage, as the woman's voice grew hoarser and hoarser, with growing concern. He hadn't signed on for this, guarding the darkened corridors of a vault while gassing a defenseless woman and child. Gage wasn't a great man, hell he wasn't even a good one, but even so there were certain limits as to what one did and what was okay.

"Having second thoughts?" Gage jumped as X6-88 appeared out of the darkness, his stealth boy allowing him to get a drop on the normally cagey raider. As always his face was an expressionless mask behind the dark glasses and crewcut.

"No way," Gage lied easily, instantly, without hesitation. Even so, something suggested that the Courser didn't believe him.

"Good thing, Mr. Gage. You are being called upon to serve and serve you will. Destiny requires it."

 _Destiny does huh? What a bitch._

* * *

Lexington was still, silent, watching and waiting. Things could not have been more different than when he'd first set foot inside the town after awakening within 111. Then the town had rung out with the symphony of violence, gunfire, explosive and laser rounds. He heard the harsh screaming and barked orders of raiders, the panicked cries of Preston Garvey and the growling of Dogmeat, alert to the threat.

Then he'd been terrified, chasing after his missing son and enraged at the death of his beloved wife before a chance encounter with the last Minuteman had forever changed his life. Now he was general of those Minutemen and Preston Garvey likely would never awaken. Now the town of Lexington was quiet, still, nothing but the screeching of distant irradiated birds and the howling wind audible for miles around. He wasn't alone this time. Two Super Mutants and a Synth had his back, not just faithful Dogmeat.

Yet the more things changed the more they stayed the same because, once again, he was running into Lexington with a shotgun in his hands trying to rescue his son from a madman.

The wind rustled the tails on his general's coat and kicked a thin layer of dust over his glasses, nestling grit into his beard. Yet he was focused, stoic, and ignored such petty distractions. Cait was in trouble; Shaun was in trouble and this was his only chance.

"Spread out," Alexander hissed under his breath, "We don't know what kind of tricks Pickman's got up his sleeve."

His friends did as he asked, the four men fanning outward as they approached the museum, where so much had begun so long ago. "Place stinks of meat." Strong grumbled under his breath, sniffing the air with his powerful nostrils.

Alexander, who didn't smell anything of the sort, looked back for conformation. Fawkes nodded, tapping his own nose with an oversized finger. "Indeed friend. A keen sense of smell is one of the benefits of this cumbersome form. Fresh blood has been spilled in the vicinity of the museum and recently."

Nick scuttled across the road, 44 magnum at the ready, "That does sound like Pickman's usual MO. A good sign he's been here."

"I just hope I don't know the poor son of a bitch that got made into a goddamn statue by this maniac." Blackwood's hope was shared by Valentine.

"You and me both pal."

Despite Alexander's nervousness that Pickman would strike before they reached the Museum of Freedom the killer did not and the quartet reached the doors without incident.

"No telling what's inside those doors," Nick mused, clicking the hammer back on his revolver. Wrapping both hands around the handgun's handle he aimed it towards the entrance.

"Nothing good," Alexander mused, holding the shotgun forward. A quick glance ensured that his revolver was loose in its holster, able to be quickly drawn when the situation demanded it. Everyone waited with baited breath, ready for whatever would come.  
With a grunt of determination, Alexander applied his boot to the double doors, throwing them aside with an echoing bang. The four stormed through the entrance, weapons held at the ready. Nothing was readily apparent. Unlike the last time that Alexander had been within the Museum of Freedom it was empty of raiders, living and dead, with the rubble and refuse swept to the sides of the entrance hallway. A fresh tunnel, leading straight into the earth with only a simple metal staircase for stability took up the majority of the tunnel. Above it hung a darkened monitor screen, similar to Blackwood's old TV but much larger.

"This wasn't a quick job," Nick mused, observing the tunnel, "Someone spent a long time getting this ready for us."

"I'll give you three guesses as to who, and the first two don't count." Blackwood stepped around cautiously, the double-barrels of his weapon remaining steady.

"The flesh scent is coming from the tunnel," Fawkes added. The tunnel glared up ominously, the darkness appearing as a gaping maw, a dragon waiting to devour the unfortunate adventurers.

"Strong not afraid!" The Super Mutant announced loudly, in a shaking tone that was far from convincing, "Strong smash his way out of stupid tunnel!"  
"I hope so big guy," Nick murmured, keeping his revolver trained on the tunnel.

"It won't be that easy I'm afraid, Mr. Strong." That sticky-sweet voice Alexander remembered from the gallery crackled throughout the Museum, the words carried by an ancient PA system that miraculously still worked. The screen above the tunnel flicked to life and the man himself came into view, his devilish features more freighting in black and white.

"Pickman." Alexander looked towards that screen with pure hatred, "Afraid to face me?"  
"Not at all, killer," the murderer responded with a ghoulish smile, "I know you won't kill me." He was so confident, so sure in that statement, it was more than a little disconcerting.

"I'm going to do a hell of a lot more than hurt you!" The general screamed back, glancing around desperately for the camera that allowed the serial killer to project his image.

"You want to," Pickman corrected, in that same sweet tone, confidence oozing from his words, "But you won't." He paused, "Don't worry, I won't hurt you either, my dear killer, you have no idea how special you are to me…how precious. I would never dream of hurting you." Pickman paused before correcting himself, "Not physically anyway." There was an obsession behind the words, a cruel desire that could not be explained.

"Go to hell!" It wasn't an eloquent response, but it was heartfelt and that was enough.

Pickman clicked his tongue like a disappointed schoolteacher. "Now now killer, there's no need for such talk. We can be civilized men, can't we? It's what separates us from that…raider trash." The suited man rubbed his hands on a silken handkerchief and with the black and white nature of the screen Alexander couldn't be sure of what exactly he was cleaning from his hands.

"The civilized thing is what we're doing," Nick butted in, aiming his revolved at the screen, "Putting you down like the mad dog you are."

 _Even Nick feels it…This bastard's going down!_

"Ah yes, the tin-man, a robot with no heart and no future." Pickman looked almost sad as he looked Valentine over, "You're still playing conscience to my killer. It won't last you know…"

"Confidence is often the mark of a foolish man," Fawkes noted, pushing his little glasses further up his nose, "I'd advise caution…"

"A philosophizing freak," Pickman looked down his nose with disdain, "At least Strong has the decency not to pretend to be anything but a monster…" Fawkes appeared hurt by the murderer's words, but he held on stoically, if for no other reason than not to give Pickman the satisfaction.

"Besides the obvious, it's easy to be confident when one holds are the cards, which, in this case, I do." Pickman oozed confidence from the video screen in such quantity it was almost physically tangible. "Now," he held up a solitary finger for pause, "Before you go charging off on the noble quest for revenge, a path I understand and respect far more than you'll ever know, I suggest to see what I have to show you." Pickman's face faded away and a grainy video feed replaced it. The images revealed were horrifying. Nick grabbed Alexander's shoulder and held it tightly.

The camera footage showed Cait and Shaun, in a darkened room, chained to the walls. As he watched the room filled with some kind of gas, the color unidentifiable. The boy and woman struggled silently against their bonds, chocking and crying out, yet their cries were silent. Alexander watched in horror as both went limp.

He was shaking with rage, eyes wet with tears when Pickman's face reappeared. "Pickman," he growled, nearly silent his voice was so low, the tone brokering no argument as to the danger Pickman was in, "I swear to almighty God I will kill you for this…"

Pickman waggled his finger condescendingly, "Now before you fly off half-cocked know this, I did not kill your false family, yet." Before Alexander could snap off some appropriate response the murderer continued, "However you do not have much time before the end so I would hurry down here and get them before too much time passes…" Pickman laughed manically and shut down the video feed.

"Alexander, you know it's a trap right?" Nick stated without sarcasm. "There's no way he's going to let us stroll down there and just grab Cait and the boy."

But Blackwood didn't hear. All he could see was the footage; all he could hear was Richard Pickman's mocking laughter. He wouldn't be too late. Not this time.

The general thundered down the metal stairs into the darkness, his footfalls echoing throughout the tunnel. Part of him wondered how such a thing could have been created within the Museum, part of him was curious as to how he hadn't yet slipped and broken something as the descent was accomplished in near complete darkness. Yet none of that mattered, not really, his focus was on his family.

"Not again," he mumbled repeatedly, "Dear God not again, I can't take it…"

"Alexander, wait!" He could hear Nick's familiar voice, seeming so far off in the distance, muted and silenced as if through a fish bowl. His focus was complete, no distractions.

Soon the stairs ended, leaving him on a metallic walkway. "Just hold on one second!" Nick desperately cried out, trying to match the general's furious pace. The Super Mutants were behind, Fawkes swinging his gatling laser in all directions, looking for a target as Strong carried both sledgehammers with minimal effort. Nick was almost to the platform, nearing the bottom of the staircase when it happened.

There was a horrific screeching of metal on metal and the platform shook. Alexander dropped to his knees, gripping the side of the platform for dear life as it swayed. The staircase he'd just stood on slid into the ground, the stairs snapping back in place to transform the simple descent into a smooth chute. That chute ended in a deep pit that had suddenly swung open beneath the stairs. Nick had been nearing the end of the stairs when the transformation happened and found himself rocketing down the now smooth surface, hand clutching tightly to his fedora as he went.

"Move!" The synth hollered and Alexander obliged him, dashing away from the staircase, moving further down the walkway. Nick's feet scraped the bottom of the chute before he flung himself towards the walkway. Robotic legs proved more than effective enough and Nick landed comfortably, hat and all, upon the metallic walkway. The detective's impact caused the walkway to sway faintly but otherwise do no harm.

Nick had augmented reflexes and wasn't being followed too closely but the Super Mutants did not have those luxuries. With an inarticulate bellow of rage and fear the two green men slid down into the darkness, their limbs tangled into a ball and weapons lost.

"Strong hate falling!" Were the last words echoing up from the darkness of the pit. Then, before the eyes of general and detective, the pit was hidden beneath the staircase as the tunnel rest itself. The stairs were once again leading up to the lobby and the pit vanished.

"Strong! Fawkes! Are you guys there? Are you okay? Answer me!" Alexander knew it was pointless, hollering at the ground like he was. In the darkness of the tunnel he couldn't accurately find where they'd disappeared. Still, that didn't stop him.

"Hey, Blackwood," Nick asked from the darkness of the tunnel, rustling around his trench coat for something. "They're Super Mutants, I'm sure they'll be fine. It'll take more than a fall to squash that Strong."

"I hope so," Alexander turned in the direction of the synthetic detective's voice, "Still, we need to find out where we are…" Nick's rustling ceased and his lighter flickered to life. The detective held the lighter in a skeletal hand while the other clutched his 44 magnum. His yellow eyes glowed eerily in the flickering light.

"Some light might help in that situation…" Nick mused, casting about with his lighter. "I'm pretty sure there's something on the walls but I can't get a good look. I don't know how far down this tunnel goes and so I'm not going too close to the edge of this walkway."

There was a snapping sound that echoed throughout the tunnel and a series of lights burst to life with ferocious brilliance that almost blinded the two men. Nick dropped his lighter in surprise, hearing the metallic box clatter as it struck the walkway once before falling to the pit below.

"You know," Nick mused after a moment, "I think I actually preferred the darkness."

Alexander Blackwood couldn't help but agree.

The metallic walkway did indeed have guard railings that would prevent all but the shortest person from simply slipping over the edge. One would certainly want to avoid slipping as the plummet from the walkway to the floor below would be unpleasant, and possibly lethal. It wasn't a particularly long fall, but the entirety of the ground was coated in foot high spikes of a metal he couldn't quite make out. Judging from how Nick's fallen lighter was impaled on one of those spikes they'd been sharpened to a razor's point.

Yet noticing the spike bed below the walkway came after the walls. The entirety of the tunnel was covered with Pickman's art. It wasn't a particularly large tunnel, both men could see the exit from where they were standing, but it was large enough. There were easily two hundred paintings of various sizes, ranging from pieces barely larger than a wallet to several paintings as tall as he was. They all carried Pickman's horrible signature and tells, eyes staring endlessly towards them, bloody hands clawing at nothing. Screaming men and women, dismemberment, torture and all manner of unpleasantries took their place on the canvas, painted in colors reminiscent of bodily fluids, notably blood. Indeed, just like the gallery all that time ago, the smell of blood made it pretty clear that at least some of these paintings were more authentic than good sense demanded.

Alexander's eyes scanned carefully the surrounding works that could only generously be called art, looking for traps or patterns, something worthy of concern. Pickman had been devious thus far, nothing suggested this would change.

"Watch it," Nick noted, holding up a finger, "These paintings are trapped."

"I figured. What's the tell?"

Nick nodded towards a nearby piece, an unpleasant looking thing that was a solitary yellow eye, painted in yellow, and surrounded by an uneven red background and grasping tendrils, painting in a jagged black stripe. Alexander cringed, the painting unsettled him for reasons he couldn't fully fathom, perhaps it was the painter.

"There's a tripwire stretched from that painting to the handrail, so watch your hands." Nick flicked an unlit cigarette towards the area he'd noted. There was a twang, a mechanical clicking and the painting launched a barrage of darts across the walkway. All, needle-pointed darts buried themselves harmlessly in a different painting but Alexander had no doubt the impact wouldn't be quite so harmless against his flesh.

"So watch my step?" The general mused, aiming his shotgun towards the darkened room at the end of the art gallery.

"That'd be prudent I'd wager." The two men moved slowly down the walkway, trying to avoid both a short and sharp fall as well as any tripwires that might activate some trap. It was slow going, painstaking for the desperate boyfriend and father whose family was in the hands of a demented killer, yet slow going was a must. It'd do Shaun and Cait no good if he died in the tunnel.

Alexander was focused on the ground, trying to avoid looking at the pieces, the less eye contact he gave the art, the better, yet something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and drew his gaze. Pickman's color pallet was quite consistent, red, black and yellow and only particular shades of those colors. Yet something was painted in a different pallet, blue and grey, several pieces in fact. Curiosity battled with judgment before curiosity won out and Alexander hazarded a glance.

Nick saw where his friend as looking and his gaze fell on the same target. "Is that…you?"

The paintings in question were, like all of Pickman's deranged work, abstract in nature. However, they seemed to show a solitary figure, in a coat of blue, hacking aside shadowy figures with a blade. The figure's blue coat was long and a triangular hat took place on his head. It was hard to tell but that man within the painting seemed to have a dark brown beard and wear glasses, just like Alexander Blackwood. In every painting he held a bloody machete, though the victims of his blade were also shadowy at best, barely expanded beyond stick figures.

"What the hell?" Was all the general could mumble, "I mean…Pickman doesn't typically do paintings of people…not individuals anyway."

"This is not his usual MO, that's for sure," Nick observed, looking more closely at the painting, "And not trapped either. He really wanted us to look at this one, or didn't care if we did."

"But that doesn't make sense…why paint a picture of me? What's the purpose?"

"The man's a lunatic; I'd be concerned if you could make sense of it." Nick spoke carefully, looking away from the painting.

It took far longer than Alexander cared to admit to pull himself away from the paintings and return to the task at hand. If Pickman's normal pieces were unsettling this was something else entirely, something disturbing on a deeply personal level. Nick, to his credit, said nothing.

The duo reached the exit to the gallery, an open doorway that led into a darkened room of unidentifiable size. He poked his head in the room, aiming the shotgun forward, nothing. He glanced behind them, nothing. All was quiet, too quiet.

 _Just get this over with Pickman!_

Unsure of what to do Alexander stepped into the room. The split second, precisely, that he entered, a door slammed down behind him with such ferocity and precision that Nick was trapped on the other side of what was now apparently a bulk head.

Alexander was alone in the dark room, but he wouldn't be alone for long.

* * *

Nick wasn't prepared.

One minute he was behind Alexander the next he was standing before a bulkhead. The metal door had slammed down so quickly, and with such force that it took the very tip of his shoe off, sheered it away to nothing.

He was alone, or so he thought.

"Turn and face me, reject." For a synthetic voice there was a genuine amount of hate. The voice was familiar, one that struck a cord of loathing within the detective.

He turned to face the voice, and saw exactly who he expected. "How long have you been here, X6-88?" The Courser glowered at Valentine, forehead creasing with anger. Nick noted that he wasn't armed with his Institute laser rifle. In fact he wasn't armed at all.

"Long enough." X6-88 stepped forward menacingly, his coat swirling around his ankles. Nick aimed his 44 magnum, the handle held tightly in both hands. "I've followed, I've waited, and now I have vengeance."

"Vengeance, for what?" Nick took a step backward, keeping the pistol centered on X6-88's chest, though the Detective was privately unsure he could kill the Courser before he crossed the short distance.

"Look around you, reject, look at this place. What do you see?"

"The ramblings of a madman." His back was against the bulkhead, there was nowhere else to run. He was trapped, "Someone I'm honestly surprised to see you with. I thought the Institute had higher standards than deranged serial killers." A little gloating never hurt, besides, Nick would be lying if he said he wasn't a little hurt by the reject comments.

"Had." X6-88 delivered that one word with such bile it stunned Nick, "The Institute HAD such standards. But those standards are gone now. Those standards are gone along with everything else I had."

"You had slavery," Nick responded passionately, trying to break through to his synthetic cousin, "You had no choice, no freedom, you did what was commanded of you by slave masters."

"The Institute was all I wanted!" X6 howled, pounding his fists against his chest with an agonized expression, "They were my purpose! Now, now it's gone! I'm drifting inside the madness of my code!"

"Why not help the Institute rebuild? Lord knows there were enough of them who attacked Sanctuary, surely you could throw your lot in with them rather than this psychopath." Not that he wanted to give the Courser ideas but keeping him talking was always a legitimate strategy.

"They are dogs fighting over scraps," X6 waved his hand dismissively, "The probability of Zimmer and Ayo rebuilding the Institute is 0.392 percent." He fixed Nick with his hidden eyes, sunglasses doing nothing to hide the hatred. "The Institute is dead, killed by Blackwood…and you. Pickman promised me my vengeance against you if I helped him with a few things…and I was more than happy to provide those services. Tormenting Blackwood is a worthy enough cause." He grinned wickedly.

"Wait? I killed the Institute? I wasn't even involved in the attack!" Nick wasn't sorry the Institute was gone, not even a little bit, yet it seemed a little perverse that he was blamed for something he ultimately wasn't involved in.

"Yes! You killed it!" X6-88 raged, stamping forward and pounding his fists together as he went forward, "You, a reject, tossed out in the trash! A failed experiment!" Each word was delivered with brutal precision and pure hatred. "We should have melted you down for spare circuits or scrap metal because every step of the way you led Blackwood! You helped him! He never would have found us without your help! You destroyed everything!"

"What about Blackwood ?" Nick asked desperate to keep the goon talking, "What does he deserve?"

X6-88 grinned viciously, "Everything that's coming his way. Pickman's going to turn him inside out." A pause. "Don't worry," he cracked his knuckles, "I have nothing so elaborate planned for you." The Courier actually looked puzzled, tapping his chin with a solitary finger, "Before the Institute threw you away like the garbage you are did they install pain receptors?"

"You know, I'm actually not sure," Nick responded all nonchalant, try desperately to present an aura of quiet confidence he did not feel.

"Well, how about I go digging?" X6-88 asked helpfully, drawing closer while cracking both wrists. "Because when I slowly beat you to death I really, really, want you to feel it."

* * *

Like the last room this one was dark, its contents hidden. Yet something was inside, something rotten that smelled of rotting meat and gristle. He aimed his shotgun but was otherwise unsure of any other action to take.

"Hello killer," the voice crackled over the speakers again, that damndible, faux-courteous tone that belonged to Pickman, "Don't bother answering, this isn't a two-way radio, just listen."

Alexander had no intention to doing that. Slowly he moved towards the wall, reaching out and finding it with a gloved hand. He had a few grenades, perhaps he could blow open a hole in the far wall and make an escape. He'd find Pickman and that would be that.

"So, you may have guessed, I want through a lot of trouble to prepare all this for you, don't worry, you're worth it!"

 _What the hell?_

"Anyway, you're worth it, like a said, and I was happy to spend the caps. Particularly for something so exotic and interesting as what I've got inside this room." He paused, allowing Alexander to move closer towards the faint crackling of the radio. "Fascinating creatures Deathclaws, they're magnificent, don't you think?"

Those words stopped Blackwood in his tracks. A Deathclaw? Here? In this enclosed space? He wouldn't last long.

"There's art to their kills, slashing with talons and claws, I respect that method of killing, that artistry. I've always felt a kinship with the Deathclaw, we're both apex predators with a penchant for close quarters. Practically one of a kind."

There was a momentary pause in the ramblings before they started up again. "When I heard that the Mid-West had its own form of Deathclaw, hairy ones, intelligent! I had to see it, and I did. This poor fellow isn't so intelligent any more, mind you, but that comes with being locked in a cage I suppose…Good luck!"

With the screeching of the cage and the snuffing of something in the darkness, released from that cage, Alexander Blackwood knew it was going to be a hard couple of moments…

In the darkness the Deathclaw howled.

* * *

 _Alexander Blackwood's War Journal_

 _I hope I don't blink when I stare death in the face._


	17. Cost Benefit Analysis

_In their final moments all men reveal their true character. Are they cowards or heroes? Slayers or saviors? I know which take their lives and which fight on until the bitter end. Who would run and who would stand. It matters not what they do, of course I kill them all the same, but truthfully I always preferred the heroes, face your death with a little dignity…_

* * *

Commander Davidson of The Talon Company couldn't believe his luck.

The sudden attack on Salem, Vertibirds, artillery fire, the Prydwen and a giant friggin' robot to top it all off had hit his battered forces like the fist of an angry god. The raiders were running disorganized, what remained of the Gunners dug in tight and Mason was nowhere to be found. Organizing a counter attack was pointless with that robot involved; they didn't have anything that could hope to bring it down when it was attacking.

But then the miracle happened.

He didn't know why and he didn't care. Suddenly the Prydwen had fallen out of the sky, plummeting like a rock. Then the robot leaped into action and caught the falling zeppelin, putting both out of action, at least temporarily, and it was in that moment that Davidson developed a plan.

"Alright maggots! Sound off!" He hollered to the surrounding company men he still had left. They were only two or so dozen, a far cry from the onslaught that he'd led into the Commonwealth from DC, but they'd have to do. If he was going to survive this encounter long enough to spend Littlehorn's money he'd need to use everything at his disposal.

The surviving Talon men responded with varying degrees of enthusiasm but they responded all the same. No one questions Davidson, not now. "Alright, here's what's happening. Wells," he glanced towards the highest ranking survivor aside form himself, "Take half the remaining forces and hold the toolshed by the lake. Remember, if we want to get paid we need to ensure none of these sons of bitches step foot inside the boss's vault. You got that?"

"Aye aye Commander," Wells responded enthusiastically, pumping his flamer nozzle in the air, "They'll get in over our cold dead bodies!"

"Excellent," he turned towards the other mercenaries, "The rest of you, gather up whatever explosives you can, mini-nukes, time bombs, hell I'll take dynamite. Get it and follow me ASAP."

"Follow you where sir?" One of the mercs asked, a little slow on the uptake.

"We're going to bring down that metal giant."

* * *

Carson, commander of the Commonwealth Gunners, had not been enjoying his stint in command of the company. When he'd killed Tucker and his bitch, Carson expected the man in the suit to pick him for meetings and planning strategy. When that didn't happen Carson expected to at least to win the battle for Sanctuary Hills, and that didn't happen.

Worst of all, the hole where his ear used to be never stopped itching.

"Goddamn Tucker, stupid idiot," he grumbled scratching the hole furiously, even in the middle of combat he couldn't stop scratching. The screaming of a vertibird overhead alerted Carson to the fact that maybe, just maybe, he should be paying attention to his surroundings.

Rolling into the cover of a nearby building, Carson aimed his grenade launcher and fired towards the vertibird. He got lucky as the grenade struck one of the propellers directly, shredding the mechanism. The 'bird wobbled, struggling to maintain altitude with the solitary propeller; a second grenade sealed the deal as the vertibird went crashing into the street with a large explosion. An explosion, that Carson could barely hear, due to his missing ear.

He was alone, separated from his Gunners, the rest were killed, fled or fallen back.

A lone man with one ear, even as dangerous as he was, was easy pickings and so, slinging his grenade launcher over his shoulder, Carson headed off in the direction of the nearest battle.

* * *

Skinny Malone didn't think of himself as a coward, he really didn't. He was a sensible boss and a gentleman, certainly nothing like the riff-raff he'd surrounded himself with. The raiders, Gunners, these Pack animals they weren't his friends. Those Institute creeps, what did he owe them? The man in the suit? Honestly, he gave Malone the creeps

Legs, one of Skinny's bruisers, shook the blood from his bat as Mickey slipped another drum into his Thompson submachine gun. "What's the play here boss?" The ghoul bruiser rumbled, going through the pockets of the Minuteman scout he'd just clubbed to death.

"Let me think!" Skinny growled to his notably shrunken crew. He'd lost a lot of boys getting this far and the businessman was starting to do a cost/benefit analysis. At a certain point one had to consider one's decision carefully so as to preserve ones assets.

An explosion rocked the alleyway the Triggermen found themselves in as a Minuteman artillery shell struck a building at the far end, bringing the shack crashing down. Legs held his bowler tightly as the rushing wind from the collapsed building screamed its way down the alleyway. Mickey fell to the ground with a grunt while Big Vinny struck an abandoned dumpster.

It was only Malone's impressive girth that kept him from falling beneath the gust. "Aww shit," he grumbled, hanging onto his Laser RCW with great effort. "I'm wondering why I got involved in this mess."

"Boss! Boss!" Tony, another one of his surviving Triggermen, came rushing down the alley, keeping his Thompson tight in hand. "The Minutemen are moving in! Tons of them! Supported by Brotherhood goons! They'll be here any minute!" The man lean forward, sucking air into his battered lungs, "We don't have much time."

As if to punctuate the point a Brotherhood of Steel vertibird went screaming overhead, both chainguns blazing. Skinny flung himself behind the dumpster and most of his boys managed to find similar cover. Mickey on the other hand froze momentarily, a fatal mistake. His suit and suspenders proved no protection against the 50. bullets launched furiously from the Vertibird. Mickey literally fell to pieces beneath the barrage. The Vertibird didn't remain to see if he had killed all the Triggermen, instead flying off in the direction of another scrap.

"God damn! Son of a bitch!" Legs howled, looking at the pasted remains of his buddy, "What the hell are we going to do?"

The faint sound of drumming rose across the horizon. "What the hell's that sound?" Malone asked, almost in a daze at the sight of his slaughtered man.

"Uh, it's drums boss," Tony answered, rubbing a hand though his sweat-stained hair, "The Minutemen got drums, flags, the whole damn thing. They're moving in, and they mean business."

Malone shook his head, "How long do we got?"

Tony shrugged, "A few minutes, tops? They've already got people landing via 'Bird. Even with the robot keeping the zeppelin from falling we're screwed."

Skinny Malone thought long and hard. Then, after the moment passed, he made the easiest, and potentially wisest, move of his career. "Boys, I don't think we owe these Institute goons anything." The boys nodded sagely. "And this suited lunatic, who is he to the Triggermen?"

"No one!" Big Vinny loudly responded, pumping his fat fist in the air.

"Right, so gather anyone you find along the way whose one of us and tell them the Triggermen are getting out of dodge!" With that Skinny Malone turned and fled for his life, his boys right behind him.

It would turn out to be a fairly sensible decision.

* * *

Elder Arthur Maxson groaned as he awoke. His Power Armor had held up okay it seemed thought the left lens was cracked and his right breathing tube ripped out of place. His head throbbed and his body screamed from a thousand places but he was alive.

The building he'd fallen through on his way down from the Prydwen hadn't been so fortunate, collapsing all around him as he'd crashed into it. His view was of the sky, clear, blue and unusually beautiful for such a bloody day.

 _The Prydwen! I can't see the Prydwen!_

As his head flopped furiously about looking in all directions, Maxson finally realized he couldn't move his body.

His armor had crumpled in on him like paper as the collapsing building trapped his already damaged limbs beneath mountains of rubble. Even had his Power Armor been in fully functional condition it would have been nearly impossible to generate the momentum needed to break free. Now, with his armor damaged, body prone and limbs immobilized, he was truly helpless.

"This is Elder Maxson to all BOS channels. Does anyone read me over?" There was nothing but static. "I repeat this is Elder Maxson on all BOS channels, does anyone read me?" The static continued unabated.

"Damn. Comms are out," Arthur muttered to himself. There were two possibilities, both equally poor under his circumstances. The first was that the Prydwen had been destroyed and along with it most of the Brotherhood communication equipment. The second was a brighter possibility, that his personal communications equipment was simply damaged by the fall and therefore rendered useless.

Well, it was brighter for the Brotherhood as a whole but each possibility was equally grim for his personal health.

Turning to get a better look at the sky in the forlorn hope that someone might have spotted him, Arthur saw a sight that gave him much needed hope. Though his arms were straining and massive body slowly being driven backward beneath the vehicle's bulk, Liberty Prime had caught the Prydwen and managed to keep her aloft. It was a temporary salutation at best but for now it kept hopefully most of his brothers in arms alive.

Then he heard the shifting of rubble near his position and turned his head as best he could for a quick glance at his rescuer.

Unfortunately he wasn't greeted by the sight of Minutemen or Brotherhood troops. Instead what he saw were several angry looking raiders, creeping towards him.

It seems he would not survive his fall after all.

* * *

Danse had watched in horror through his binoculars as The Prydwen suddenly plummeted from the sky, watched in utter terror as several armored figures plummeted over the rails and crashed into the surrounding town, most likely to their deaths.

But fortunes can change on a dime and before his astonished eyes Liberty Prime sprang into action, catching the falling zeppelin before it crashed into the ground.

Danse grabbed the nearest radio and keyed in the Brotherhood frequency he still knew off by heart, "Kells! Rothchild! This is Colonel Danse of the Commonwealth Minutemen. If anyone is alive onboard the Prydwen please respond!"

The line crackled and for a moment Danse feared he'd hear nothing but static. Instead bits and pieces from a voice Danse instantly recognized as Kells made it through, "…anse? This is… ells…We've lost po…No reason yet….Elder…axson…overboard bu….his transponder…." Then the signal vanished utterly.

"Damn!" Danse growled, slamming the radio back into his holster. "Too much interference!"

"Must be the radiation…" Duke murmured, watching the Brotherhood of Steel fall from the sky with some concern. Ex-Enclave or no, Minutemen lives were counting on the airship's support. "Or perhaps something darker…"

Danse didn't have time to ask Colder exactly what he meant by that particularly unpleasant comment, he had a situation to salvage. Hancock had taken his company of Neighborhood Watch in already, the whooping and hollering of his band of killers almost louder than that of the raiders themselves. The Minutemen moved in more disciplined, with flags flying and drums sounding. Danse was alone, just him and Colder. Out of range of harm but also out of range to physically help with the attack, and now with communication gone...

"What was that about the Elder?" Duke asked out of the blue, gazing over the war torn ruins of Salem, "I heard something…"

"Wasn't clear," Danse growled snatching up his laser rifle from its place on the ground. His X01 Power Armor was grease and powered up, the fusion core humming loudly behind him. He could feel the joints augment his natural strength as the comforting weight of the armor pressed down against him.

"Where the hell are you going?" Duke inquired without raising his voice an octave. The man's hands were still bound but he seemed unbothered, as if he'd accepted his fate and was ambivalent at best.

"Several of the Brothers…" Danse caught himself and corrected his words after a moment, "Some of the Brotherhood soldiers went overboard when Prime caught the Prydwen, a few were in Power Armor and they might have survived the fall. With the radio's jammed and our forces deployed I can't send anyone for recovery." Double checking the microfusion cells within his laser rifle, Danse continued, "I have to go save anyone I can. We need every able bodied soldier we can get, and that goes double for anyone capable with Power Armor."

There was a long pause before Duke said, "It'll be a suicide run, charging into that madness alone, even in Power Armor."

"I'll be fine," the Colonel responded robotically, apparently satisfied with his rifle's ammunition counter. "We all have to do our duty, regardless of its ease."

Danse was about to leap down into the fray when Sgt Colder made an unexpected plea. "Colonel, please. Let me come with you."

Danse looked back, "Are you serious?"

"The Minutemen are my home, my family. They're my friends…even you." He didn't look at the former Paladin as he said it, rather continuing to stare blankly over the battlefield. "I want to help you fight for them." Finally turning and looking at Danse, Colder gave a dark smile, "Besides, I might die and that'll solve the problem of sentencing. Right?" He held out his cuffed arms, "Now why don't you uncuff me so we can get to work?"

Danse actually smiled. Reaching his armored hands into one of several belt pouches the Synth withdrew the key. Inserting it into Duke's cuffs, Danse snapped it to the side and released the sergeant. As the shackles clattered to the ground, Duke rubbed his chaffed wrists with a contented sigh. "For a second, I didn't think you were going to go for it." He rolled his shoulders and groaned again, "Been awhile since I was last in cuffs, though that situation was notably different." He forced a weak smile as the sounds of battle echoed around them, removing any real levity the situation might have had.

Handing Duke the laser pistol he'd worn on his belt, Danse answered, "If we both survive the next couple of hours, feel free to tell it." He slammed his helmet into place and, with a mighty cry of "Ad Victorium!" leapt from the berm into the firefight. Without helmet or battle cry Duke followed.

An explosive went off a few meters from Duke, throwing dirt across his face. Men screamed and bullets and lasers tore into their fragile bodies, ripping them apart. Duke tried to stay close to the massive Power Armor wearing form of Colonel Danse, his only lifeline in the chaos.

Through the smoke and fire of Salem a Gunner rushed him, screaming, waving a bloody baton that had clearly already seen use. His eyes were wild, the effects of Jet clearly, foaming at the mouth like a rabid animal.

Duke took aim with the laser pistol and shot the Gunner neatly, putting a single bolt through his throat. As the dying man's eyes mirrored the madness of the situation around him, Duke felt and saw Adams Airforce Base again.

 _An explosion sounded, screaming Vertibirds, chaos all around him. The heavy gunner in his squad falling backward, bleeding from his chest as the Brotherhood of Steel stormed into the base. Hundreds of them._

 _He snatched up the heavy incinerator and opened fire, spewing flame and death towards the onrushing Paladins. Still they came._

" _Hold the line damn you!" Screamed an officer, his cap flying away in the madness. "Hold the…" A laser round took off his head, soaking Duke's face with blood…_

"Colder!" Danse screamed at him, "Focus on me!" Duke's eyes refocused and he saw Quincy once again around him. He heard the drums and saw the flame. A raider, shot through the chest lay before him, a pipe-rifle clutched in his limp hands. Duke's own subconscious reflexes had saved him and the blood he'd felt had indeed struck him. He peeled the corpse's fingers from the handle…

 _The officer gurgled, dying a slow death as Duke took the plasma rifle from his hands. The officer gasped once and fell. Around him, Enclave forces lay dead or dying, some even fled before his very eyes. The Corporal nearest him looked on in panic, her helmet lost in the carnage. "What the hell do we do Duke? What the hell do we do?" There were tears of fear in her eyes as the Brotherhood forces moved in further._

" _Shape up!" Duke pointed towards the colossal vehicle they'd fought so hard to protect. "We fight our way over to the Mobile Crawler and hold the position! Our boys will drop a bomb on those Brotherhood bastards just like we smashed that oversized tin can of theirs…"_

 _Yet as the sirens pierced the air Duke realized the missiles had been sent, just not where he'd hoped. A vertibird screamed overhead as some of the Enclave's luckier or more prominent members fled the onrushing bombardment. Duke could only scream in frustration…It had all been for naught._

* * *

Charles kept his head inside the Vertibird as missiles, bombs and bullets screamed by in all directions, things were not going well. "Do you think Prime can hold up the Prydwen for long?" He asked Paladin McGraw, checking one last time that his Chinese assault rifle was loaded. Jericho looked at him exasperatedly, arms folded; the check wouldn't be any different this time.

McGraw's expression was hidden behind his helmet but body language suggested the former Outcast was panicked. "Not sure," he answered, "Prime's strength has never really been tested but this is the Prydwen we're talking about, that thing's massive and Prime's vulnerable to attack while trying to set her down."  
"If Prime is vulnerable we should move in and defend him." President Dave's words were oddly sensible as Charles remembered that, eccentricities aside, Dave was a highly successful mercenary.

"What about Harkness?" Simms asked from across the 'bird, "Are we going after him?"

Jericho shook his head, "There's no time! If we don't get down there that giant tin flag will dropped the blimp and then we're all screwed. The explosion will get us no matter where in Salem we are. We've got to keep that from happening."

Charon grunted his agreement and Molly the ex-Gunner nodded. Charles wished desperately that Riley was here but, along with her Rangers, she'd been critically involved in the scouting and her fate was a mystery to him. He'd sent a quick prayer on his wife's behalf and he'd no doubt send another one before this was done.

Simms took his hat off for a moment, bowing his head, "Godspeed Harkness." Then, replacing it on his head, Simms turned towards the pilot, "Take us towards Prime, now!"

The Brotherhood pilot didn't bother responding as he gunned the Vertibird's engine and rushed towards the massive robot. Prime's booming voice could be heard over the groaning of metal. "SYSTEM MALFUNCTION! WEIGHT OVERLOAD! WEIGHT OVERLOAD! ATTEMPTING TO SHIFT BALANCE!" It was clear the robot was trying to slowly set the Prydwen down and might actually succeed, if he was allowed to do so.

Even as the battle raged all throughout the city Charles saw Talon Company soldiers rushing towards Liberty Prime, arms full of explosives, doing everything in their power to avoid being drawn into any of the battles. They had a mission, one that could spell doom for the Commonwealth.

Thankfully, Charles and company had advantage of the Vertibird's speed and maneuverability, narrowly beating the Talon mercs to Prime's massive feet. "Make sure you aren't trampled!" McGraw advised, unnecessarily, as he leaped free from the 'bird, landing with the typical loud banging of Power Armor on pavement. Several armored forms had already taken placements around Prime as Charles followed McGraw.

He looked to his left and saw Jericho and Charon, weapons ready, faces grim, to his right was Simms and Dave, nervous but ready for war. And of course, McGraw, the red stripe down the center of his helmet making him distinct even in the midst of other Power Armored members of the Brotherhood, stood in the front, laser rifle ready to dispense justice on the Talon men.

Yet the three Paladins who already stood guard around Prime were likewise distinct, as the symbol of the Lion was visible upon their armored breast. What remained of Lyons Pride stood ready to do their part for the Prydwen.

"Well, Kodiak," McGraw sniffed derisively at the leader of the three Paladins, "I'm actually pleased to see you and your old squad for once, who would have thought?"  
Kodiak's expression was hidden behind his helmet but the former Outcast was clearly pushing a few buttons. "McGraw." He ground the solitary word out with all the bile he could muster. "I for once can say the same."

Dave looked confused at the disagreement. "But aren't they both?"

The formed member of the Pride, Charles himself, cut the President off, "I'll explain later Dave. We don't really have time." The mercenary turned democratic figurehead shrugged and turned his attention back to the chaos.

"We have armed Talon Company men heading this way," Colvin announced, shouting to be heard over the grinding metal that was Liberty Prime and the Prydwen. "They seem to be lead by Davidson himself, regional commander of this detachment." Slapping the clip on his sniper rifle, Colvin murmured, "I hope I can send him to meet his maker before the end of this encounter."

"We don't have a lot of time so spread out, cover every angle," Kodiak ordered. "Plenty of rubble in the streets for…" The punctuation of bullet fire did more to emphasis his point about cover than words ever could as the Talon Company burst into the courtyard. "MOVE!" Screamed Kodiak, opening fire with his laser rifle and killing a lead Talon.

Charles slid behind a fallen mailbox and fired his Chinese assault rifle towards a nearby merc. His aim was true and the bullets ripped through the man's exposed face and neck, killing him instantly.

A plasma round liquefied an upper portion of the box. Charles turned to see a Talon mercenary flanking him. Obviously the plasma rifle wielding man had climbed through one of the buildings rather than through the alleyways of Salem and now had him flanked. Charles already knew he was too slow as he aimed his rifle.

Before the Talon man could drop him a bolt of laser energy struck him in the face, blasting his head from his shoulders. Appearing behind Charles, like a ghost, was Knight Captain Gallows.

"Thanks." Charles' words were simple but heartfelt. Gallows simply nodded and turned towards the fray. Charles saw a Talon run in with a grenade launcher, aiming for the robot's exposed joints. The Lone Wanderer shot the man down without hesitation.

Even over the din of battle he could hear Dave's battle-cry of "For the Republic!" and Jericho's less noble one of "Die you bastards!" While they may have had different motivations both were on his side at the moment and every gun counted.

A burst of automatic fire reminded him to keep his head in the moment and so Charles returned fire once again.

* * *

 **INTEGRITY FAILURE. SYSTEMS OVERLOADED.**

 **SCANNING**

 **SCANNING**

 **SCANNNING.**

 **Small arms fire detected. Likelihood of damage to Prime unit if ignored? 23.0567808609%. Loss of Prime? 37%**

 **Likelihood of Prydwen loss if engaged? 100%.**

 **Prime is expendable…**

 **Scanning…allies detected…**

 **Likelihood of Prime loss with new allies? 9.543%**

 **Acceptable.**

 **Located source of water nearby.**

 **Formulate plan….25%...47%...78%...97.2%...100%**

 **Plan formulated.**

" **AMERICA WILL NEVER SURRENDER TO COMMUNIST TYRANNY!"**

* * *

The tent was a smoldering ruin, blasted to pieces in the battle between Coursers. It was a combat faster than the eye could follow as Harkness sprayed bullets from his Chinese assault rifle with a vengeance with Armitage returned the fire with his Institute rifle. Zimmer was long gone, having fled into the chaos of the battle without looking back. Now, there was a lull in the action after several furious minutes of combat.

Armitage looked down at his side. Bleeding, as he'd suspected, from where Harkness had gotten a lucky shot off. The bullet was wedged tightly within his right side, scraping bone and grinding against muscle tissue. It had to go.

Gritting his teach, Armitage went digging, extracting the bullet with maximum effort and a grunt of pain. Taking a spent, but still steaming, MF cell the Courser burned the wound shut, biting the inside of his mouth until he tasted his own copper blood to keep from screaming.

Still no sign of Harkness as Armitage reloaded his Institute rifle, scanning for any sign of the renegade synth. There was the possibility that he'd atomized his foe, the downside of energy weapons after all.

 _I wanted to pry his head off with my bare hands._

Until he saw proof, however, Armitage wouldn't believe it. Visually scanning the smoldering remains of the tent once more to ensure Harkness hadn't hidden himself behind an overturned table or burnt canvas, the Courser went for the back flap. While killing Harkness would certainly be sweet it was his responsibility to ensure that Dr. Zimmer escaped with his life. So putting his vendetta aside, Armitage went through the smoking back flap of the tent after the head of the Institute.

A minuteman lay dead in the street, shot clean through the forehead with a laser bolt, Zimmer's work no doubt. Stepping over the body without a second thought, Armitage rushed through the winding alleyway after the doctor.

 _He couldn't have gotten far. Not in this mess._

As it turned out, Armitage was more right than he thought…

* * *

Zimmer gasped and wheezed, his ancient lungs struggling to bring air in as he rushed on and on. It had been too long since he'd needed such a burst of energy so fast. His lab coat stained with sweat, his palms burned from the heat of his rapidly fired weapon, Zimmer leaned against the nearest wall, taking a moment to rest.

 _What I wouldn't give for some water…_

The battle still raged around him as Salem burned. He knew running was futile, he could sense it. At some point he'd be caught, tried and probably executed. Even if he did escape the chaos where would he go? He was an old man with nobody behind him. He had no resources, no supplies. He'd fight on to his last breath, nobody was getting the satisfaction of forcing him to give up but something told him it wouldn't be much longer.

"This may be the end of the Institute," he muttered to the nearby corpse of a raider, killed in the initial bombardment. "And with it, the last light for humanity."

"It's a well deserved end."

The voice was harsh, cold, with that hint of synthetic undertone that Zimmer had long learned to detect.

He turned to see Harkness, aiming his Chinese assault rifle at the doctor in unflinching hands. "I won't weep for you."

Zimmer shrugged, took off his glasses and wiped them clean on his coat. "That's what I expected from a rabid animal such as yourself, you have no semblance of order."

"You made me a monster," Harkness growled, "You sent me after those who wanted to live free of your clutches! You played god!" He howled into the flaming ruins of Salem, "You and your twisted lab partners, you played god! Creating life that wasn't meant to be!"

"It was all for a greater good." Zimmer stood tall, unapologetic and unafraid. He wouldn't cower in his last moments.

With a roar of anger Harkness opened fire.

It hurt worse than Zimmer expected.

Several bullets tore through his body, plastering the walls behind him with his crimson blood. Zimmer, the last of the Institute, slid down the wall with a gasp. His lungs began to fail as the world around him grew cold. Despite his glasses being on his vision was blurry, unfocused. Save for the blood on his hands, the red blood on his white coat, what a contrast it made.

Just before Doctor Zimmer closed his eyes for the last time he could hear the anguished cries of faithful Armitage, "DOCTOR! NOOOO!"

Zimmer managed to croak out a laugh.

It was all for nothing.

* * *

Maxson struggled against his restraints, trying desperately to shimmy out from beneath the rubble that trapped him. His gatling laser was still within sight and his pistol was at his side. The raiders drew closer, ever closer, the trio of diseased ridden men overcoming their fear of the prone figure in Power Armor to come and take a look.

"You think he survived that fall?"

"That shit's pretty tough, I've seen 'em shrug off grenades before in that walking can."

"But look, even if he's alive he's stuck, or he'd have come after us by now…"  
"Unless he's playing dumb, trying to lure us into a trap."  
"What Brotherhood goon has ever ambushed?"

Maxson struggled again, knowing that in this state the three men with pipe weapons and machetes could peel open his suit or shoot him through the damaged eye slits. He was completely vulnerable and no amount of technology or might would save him.

Elder Maxson closed his eyes and began his meditations on the Codex, if he was to die it was to be as a member of the Brotherhood of Steel.

A barrage of laser rife echoed throughout the ruins of the building as the trio of Raiders was suddenly and abruptly silenced. Maxson tried to turn and see the source of his deliverance but with his damaged helmet and trapped neck he was unable to get a look.

"Sargent Colder, cover me while I take a look. We may have a survivor!"

Maxson could hardly believe his ears, and his misfortune. Sure enough the tower armored figure of his former Paladin came into view. "Hello, Elder Maxson. Let's get you out of here."

Danse's face was hidden behind the X01 helmet he wore so Maxson couldn't tell exactly how he was feeling, but he kept his voice neutral. "Colonel." He responded, refusing to use the Synth's name. "I'm trapped under this rubble and my Power Armor's badly damaged. Assistance would be greatly appreciated."

Danse leaned forward and began hauling the first piece of rubble away, "Duke! Come over here and give me a hand, Elder Maxson's alive!"

 _Saved by the Synth. I'll never live this down._

* * *

 _Alexander Blackwood's Journal_

 _People can survive all sorts of things if they have the willpower to do it. If they really want it, need it. But the second you lose your hope? That's when you fall apart._


	18. Remember

**Chapter 18: Remember**

* * *

 _No one understands me. Not really. They call me a madman, murderer, psychopath and monster. They assume they know what they don't understand. I don't need their approval of course. I'm an artist. And when has an artist ever been understood by common folk?_

 _What am I? A mirror. I strip away the false dichotomies and the lies we tell ourselves. I peel back the layers and expose the real man beneath. I am an agent of change, a man whose purpose is to help, to expose._

 _No, they don't understand me at all…_

* * *

Curie sighed sadly as she took another trip around the med-lab. The light bulbs Alexander installed months ago hummed gently and the various monitors gave reports about dying and wounded soldiers. Her formerly pristine labcoat was stained with blood and her eyes were damp. Tears, she believed they were called.

 _Perhaps my attempts to become more human were a mistake._

The various Wastelanders, Minutemen and Brotherhood soldiers groaned beneath the medical equipment, hooked up to anesthesia, stimpaks and bloodbags.

Curie pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed again. She was alone, working to keep several badly wounded men alive without the help of her assistances, all of whom had been called out to war. How many would return alive? How many more wounded men and women would need her help after Salem?

She stopped before the one bed she visited most. Preston Garvey, second in command of the Commonwealth Minutemen. Though you wouldn't know it he was one of the most powerful men in the United Commonwealth, not that he'd acknowledge it even if you did. A good friend, both to the General and to her, a gentle soul and a brave warrior, yet here he was, dying.

His missing arm and leg had been bandaged and sterilized, his body hooked up to IV and anesthesia. He was sleeping, healing, at least she hoped. The damage to his body had been so severe, infection very likely and the technology she had at her disposal simply wasn't good enough.

"Poor Monsieur Garvey," she whispered over his still form, "You were a good man."

Then, completely unexpectedly, she heard a rattling gasp, forced from battered lungs. Preston's eyes snapped open, wildly glancing about in all directions. Curie squealed and step back, "Mon Dieu! Monsieur Garvey! You live?"

Preston gasped, looking over at his missing limbs and the hospital bed he found himself in. "What happened? What's going on?" He was close to panic, thrashing about in his bed.

"It is okay, Monsieur Garvey, take breaths!" Curie pressed her hand against his forehead; the temperature of his skin was inflamed. "You are safe here!"

"The general! The general! Is he okay?" The words tumbled out of Preston's mouth as his eyes expanded.

"Do not worry, Monsieur Garvey, the general, he is alright. Do not worry…"

* * *

Alexander Blackwood was very much not okay.

The beast hunched before him was smaller than he expected. Its flesh, what could be seen beneath the matted fur of light sandy brown, was pale. A maw of jagged, broken teeth was set beneath a long horn above the beast's nose. The creature's skull was home to four twisting horns moving off in all directions. Its claws were long and jagged, much like Deathclaws he was familiar with.

"Careful," Pickman's voice echoed throughout the chamber as the lights blazed to life, "He's hungry and feral. You'll have to let go of your pretenses if you want to survive this little test!"

The Deathclaw howled a bloodcurdling scream that echoed around the metallic room. If that Deathclaw hadn't screamed Alexander would have died right there.

His vision still blurry from the lights, ears ringing from the scream, he threw himself to the side, firing the double-barreled shotgun as he did. Even with most of his senses temporarily disabled by the light and the shrieking the shells struck true.

The hairy Deathclaw howled as blood spurted outward from the impact point. Alexander felt claws sail past the tail of his coat, slashing the general's uniform but mercifully avoiding flesh.

Ripping two fresh shells from his ammo bag, the Sole Survivor ejected the spent ones with all haste. Unfortunately in his dazed state he wasn't as careful and the shells struck him in the cheeks. Both burned across his face as they fell away.

"Shit!" The survivor cursed falling backward, accidentally dropping both fresh shells in the process. The Deathclaw, smelling the scent of burning flesh, darted to the side, tail whipping back and forth. Lowering its head the Deathclaw charged him, horn first. Blackwood raised his shotgun across his chest defensibly, praying his armor would hold.

The horn pierced clean through the shotgun, destroying before his eyes a weapon that had carried him through thick and thin, and saved his life one last time. The point of the horn didn't have the force to punch through the weapon and the armor and so, rather than be impaled, Alexander Blackwood was launched backward, smashing into the far wall. His glasses took the opportunity to slip from his face, obscuring his vision further.

"Find your instinct again," Pickman's voice cooed from the hidden speakers, "You're a master of murder, sweet killer, find that edge again. You'll die otherwise."

"Shut up!" Alexander howled, dropping his hand down to the holster at his waste. His faithful Remington revolver came free from its Brahmin-hide container as always. Even with vision so distorted, the hairy Deathclaw was a massive target within the small space. He raised the revolver and squeezed the trigger as fast as his finger allowed. Six deadly bullets rushed towards the beast, four of which struck home, tearing gouges through malnourished flesh. The Deathclaw staggered backward, raising its head and giving an ear-splitting howl.

The momentary pause gave Alexander Blackwood the much needed opportunity to replace his glasses. He didn't look at the beast as he slipped bullets into the Remington's wheel as fast as he could. The burns on his face continued stinging, eyes welling up with tears of pain as bones so recently set begun to break again.

The Deathclaw seemed a bit more cautious, dropping to all fours and sliding about the room. Blood dripped from the wounds where the general had found his mark but the Deathclaw continued moving with renewed purpose. Its inhuman resilience was on display as the grievous wounds didn't seem to register.

Alexander aimed his Remington one handed, drawing the Shem Drowne from its scabbard. The faint ticking of his Pip-boy's Geiger counter informed him the blade's radioactive properties were still well active. How effective the radiation would be against this new type of Deathclaw he couldn't say, but fortunately he'd rigged something else onto the ancient Revolutionary War blade.

Flipping the battery pack installed into the weapon's handle the blade crackled to life with a surge of electrical energy. The light from the blade bounced around the chamber as the energy crackled. He hadn't had time to use the electric edge during the battle for Sanctuary but now? It was perfect.

The Deathclaw leaned back on its hind legs and then launched himself at the general.

Alexander was already firing as man and beast met in the middle.

* * *

Nick Valentine knew he wasn't quite up to the caliber of a Gen 3 synth, he just wasn't. Better than a Gen 2? Sure but he was a prototype, a failed experiment rescued by a "brother" who was himself a failed experiment. He'd clashed with Gen 3's before on more than one occasion yet a combination of luck and skill allowed him to succeed despite the programming differences.

What he didn't realize was just how much better a Courser was than a Gen 3.

Nick was aiming his 44 magnum towards X6-88 when suddenly the synth was right in his face, having cleared the distance of the bridge in a matter of moments. X6's fist slammed into Nick's gun-hand, knocking the revolver away and damaging a few joints for good measure. As Valentine's free hand went for the spare pipe revolver he still kept as a backup X6 was one step ahead. The superior speed of the Courser allowed him to beat Nick to the second holster by quite a bit as the flimsy material of the homemade weapon proved useless against the Courser's fist. The weapon was crushed against Nick's leg, rendering it useless.

Before Valentine could react he was struck in the sternum by a fist that bent him forward, than punched in the side of the head with a vicious right hook. His face met the metallic walkway with a crunch and his circuits buzzed furiously. "Ow."

"Don't go to pieces just yet, reject," X6 sneered coldly, grabbing Nick by the collar of his trenchcoat. The detective squirmed in an attempt to get free but X6 wasn't done. Slamming Nick against the metallic walkway the detective was painfully aware, both of his ability to actually feel pain and of the numerous razor-sharp spikes in the pit below. As X6-88 raised his face up again in the split second before impact Nick noted he'd left an imprint in the walkway.

"Ah that's just great. Going to have to recalibrate my CPU after this," he mumbled before the Courser smashed him back down onto the walkway. Tossing Nick aside with a dismissive sneer, X6 rose to his full height, cracking one wrist than the other. "I've waiting a long time for this, reject. I'll enjoy ever moment."

"I could just send you a postcard every month," Nick responded, staggering to his feet and spitting out some sort of fluid he couldn't identify. X6 didn't bother with a reply, dashing across the open space and smashing down with a synthetic fist. Nick actually managed to avoid the blow, watching the guard railing crumple beneath the Courser's fist. He wasn't quick enough to avoid the backhand, however, sending the detective sprawling across the walkway into the other guard railing.

"That can't be good for my circuits," Nick mumbled, staggering to his feet and raising his hands in defiance. "Is that everything you've got?"

The Courser sneered, "Threats, reject?" He laughed coldly, "As if you are in any way capable of harming me. I'm a model so far beyond your comprehension, so superior in every way that you've got as much chance of destroying me as a Mole-rat."

"If I'm so inferior," Valentine answered defiantly, "And you Coursers are so superior, how come the Minutemen kicked your sorry asses?"

The Courser's forehead wrinkled with rage, nostrils flaring as fists clenched tighter. Nick decided then and there to push X6 over the edge, maybe getting the Courser furious wasn't the best plan, but it was all he had. "How come I was able to accompany General Blackwood into the Institute and help plant a bomb that ended your reign of terror? If I'm such a reject how come you didn't stop me then?"

"You were there?" The words came softly, low but menacing and Nick saw the depth of hatred within the Courser. "You defiled the Institute with your prescience? You actively partook in its destruction?" X6's voice grew louder and louder as he stomped towards the battered detective. "I'll kill you! I'll rip out your memories, use them to track down the people you care about and kill them too! I'll kill everyone you love! Everyone!"

The Courser dashed the distance, moving faster than Nick could follow. Yet Nick felt the blows, first a left hook, than a right, striking the opposite sides of his face. A third blow struck him in the stomach, doubling him over before X6's knee connected with Nick's chin. The detective's head flew back and his hat tumbled away over the edge, impaling itself on the spike below.

Before he could lament the loss of his hat, Nick felt another leg snap into his own, knocking him to the ground. X6 stood over him like a looming thing, ripping a portion of the safety rail free with minimal effort. The jagged piece of metal formed a crude spear and with the Courser's strength was more than enough to split Nick open.

"I've changed my mind," X6 snarled, stabbing down with the rod, "I'm killing you quick!"

Nick scooted backwards like a Mirelurk, narrowly avoiding the jagged point of the makeshift spear. His trench coat wasn't so lucky and suffered yet another gash that Ellie would have to patch. The spear lodged itself in the metal walkway and, rather than pull it free, X6 lunged forward with his hands outstretched in an attempt to tear Nick's head from his shoulders, screaming, "I'm killing everyone you care about, that snooty reporter, the general, Garvey, that girl from the Island and last of all little Ellie Perkins." He smiled wickedly, "She won't die easy, reject, I promise you that."

But X6 finally made a mistake.

In his rage the lunge was so telegraphed that Valentine saw it coming and, without rising, kicked upward with both feet, striking the Courser in the stomach and launching him overhead. As X6 tried to find his footing after the sudden shift, Nick ripped the metal rod free from the walkway.

It was all instinct. Logic and programming suggested that nothing Nick did would allow him to defeat X6. The Courser was too strong, too fast and filled with rage. But Nick Valentine was never one to listen to the odds.

X6 leaped into the air, bringing his fists down onto Nick's skull in an attempt to crush the Detective's CPU. Nick stabbed upward with the metallic psudo-spear as X6 came down. The sunglasses fell from his face as the jagged edge of the railing punched clean through the Courser's chest and exploded out his back. A rattling wheezing gasp escaped X6's lips as he gazed down in horror at the near fatal blow Nick Valentine, an inferior model, had struck.  
"End of the line, pal," Nick growled before tossing X6 and the makeshift spear over the railing to the spiked pit below. Nick didn't have to see the blows; the sounds of tearing flesh and splattering remains were all the proof he needed. Still, it wouldn't hurt to check.

Finding his footing and snapping his joints back into place where appropriate, Nick snatched up his fallen 44 revolver and gazed over the safety rail to the pit below. Sure enough, the Courser lay impaled on several spikes his limbs twitching faintly as the blood oozed from several limbs. Off to the side was Nick's hat, impaled perfectly on one of the spikes.

"Too damn bad." Nick mumbled to no one in particular, "I loved that hat."

Looking towards the massive locked door that had separated him from Alexander, Nick noted the terminal nearby. "Here's hoping," the synth murmured cracking his synthetic knuckles and powering up the ancient machine. Sure enough the terminal was locked.

"It's never easy, is it?"

* * *

"My friend, we must pool our resources together if we are to defeat this confounded puzzle box!" Fawkes bemoaned, tapping furiously away at the terminal, the soft green glow of its screen the only source of light within the darkened room. It had been quiet a tumble down the darkness and the Super Mutants had a few bruises along the way but both survived. For how long was the question.

"Strong want to smash stupid machine! That human junk!" The other Mutant stamped about with his twin sledge hammers, pounding excessively against the walls of their prison, making concentration difficult.

"Friend! Silence that inane racket and articulate your thoughts!" Fawkes gruffly responded, frustrated yet again as his large fingers made typing difficult **.**

"You talk too fancy to be Super Mutant! Strong bored with this!" Strong, ever the ineloquent one responded, clanging his hammers again. "Human and metal face need help! Let me Smash!" Strong stomped over to Fawkes in an attempt to shove him out of the way, "Strong deal with machine!"

"It's more complicated than that! I need to figure out the codes!" But Strong ignored Fawkes' plea, elbowed him aside and smashed the terminal with his hammers before the other Super Mutant could stop him. Fawkes was about to make several blistering remarks about Strong's lack of intelligence when the sound of metal grinding on metal echoed throughout the chamber. The door, cleverly hidden within the walls of the chamber, rolled open, revealing a series of maze-like tunnels spreading off in several directions.

"Well," Fawkes stated after a moment, "It appears I was wrong after all." He turned towards Strong, "My thanks friend." Strong grinned but didn't speak. Turning his attention towards the tunnels and squinting behind his glasses Fawkes stated, "Now if only there was an obvious answer to the problem before us?"  
"Strong smash tunnel!" Came the enthusiastic response from the other Mutant.

Fawkes shrugged his massive shoulders, "Couldn't hurt to try."

* * *

The Deathclaw lunged forward, slashing out with its razor-edged claws and cutting a gouge through the general's breastplate. Alexander responded with a slash of his own, the ancient blade biting deep into the Deathclaw's arm and sending a burst of electricity along the limb. The piece of flesh that fell away was already cooked as it hit the ground, steaming gently as blood curdled.

Howling in rage, the Deathclaw lashed out with its clawed hands but Alexander narrowly avoided both, slashing out with the blade and firing his Remington repeatedly towards the beast's injured chest.

He felt, more than saw, the impact. He tasted the blood in the air, smelled the battle in his nostrils.

He was utterly focused on victory, his body burning with exertion, wounds aching and bleeding but he would not lose. Over the intercom he could faintly hear the sound of his tormentor's voice, "Yes….That's it…"  
Alexander's reflexes failed him as an upward blow from the Deathclaw scarred his face yet again, drawing blood and tearing flesh. Alexander responded by firing the last two bullets in his revolver directly into the beast's right eye. The orb shattered beneath the assault, leaving the Deathclaw howling and grasping at the now empty socket. With a scream of rage and determination, the general tossed the Remington away and gripped the Shem Drowe blade with both hands.

With a mighty, primal howl, of bestial rage that drowned out even the Deathclaw's pained howling, Alexander drove the blade deep into the creature's scarred chest. The Deathclaw had let its guard down only momentarily but that was a moment too long. The sword punched through cratered flesh, the electricity crackling along the Deathclaw's ribcage and up Alexander's arm. His teeth chattered and hair stood on end as he cranked up the voltage, determined to kill the beast. The world swirled around him as his vision blurred. The Deathclaw bucked its nose horn forward, raking the exposed bone along the left side of Alexander's face, gouging flesh from cheek and chipping bone.

Still the general drove the blade deeper, shoving with both hands until the electrified weapon's tip punched through the creature's heart. The Deathclaw's eyes went wide and its jaw slackened. Alexander was panting deeply, but stood triumphant over the Deathclaw. Before the dying creature could attack the human who'd done it such harm the powerpack on the Shem Drowe overloaded and exploded.

Alexander had put too much power through it in an attempt to kill the Deathclaw and hadn't tested the modifications well enough, a mistake he paid dearly for. The explosion sent him flying backwards while the Deathclaw's chest burst open in a gory display. Shattered bits of steel and bone flew passed him like jagged leafs, cutting him in dozens of places, adding to the growing pain that wracked his body.

 _Another weapon, another thing that's kept me safe for so long, gone like that…_

It felt odd to mourn the loss of a thing in the midst of so much death but mourn it he did. The Shem Drowe sword was a piece of history, a symbol of his nation and a representation of the friendship between him and Nick Valentine.

It was a combination of that emotional distress and the physical pain of his injuries that kept him from noticing it for a few seconds. But when the pain in his right hand became unbearable Alexander looked down and noticed his little and ring finger had been blown clean off in the explosion. The stumps that were all that remained of his fingers, while they were in extreme pain, at least weren't bleeding too badly. Their proximity to the explosion had cauterized the worst of the wound. Shock was slowly setting in and Alexander knew he wasn't in a place where panic would be forgiven. Robotically, methodically, without dwelling too much about what the lost digits meant, Alexander tore a strip from his now suitably tattered Minuteman general's coat and bound his hand tightly to stop the remaining bleeding and protect the exposed muscle and bone from further harm.

With nothing left but the discarded Remington revolver and the knife Pickman had left him those months ago, Alexander began to wonder just how far into this death trap he'd have to go.

"Very good killer," the sickly-sweet voice oozed from the speakers around him, "I knew it was still there, still locked away. You understand the thrill of the hunt, the reward of the kill and all its glory. As I do."

Alexander rose shakily to his feet, crossing the room to recover his fallen revolver. The hot blood of Deathclaw and man stained his face, his hand ached with the agony of lost fingers. Look towards the speaker in the room's corner, Alexander boldly exclaimed. "I'm nothing like you."

"Nonsense," the Artist responded, "You cling to the false ideals of societal norms, norms I might add, that are far from applicable in this brave, beautiful world." He paused, gathering his words, "America is dead, killer, she's dead. Bury her and embrace the Wasteland."

"No." Alexander's words were as firm as the bullets he shakily fed into the Remington's wheel. "I'll never become like you."

"Oh, but you will, all you need is a little…push."

With that cryptic warning the ceiling began to crack open, mighty gears that had been carefully hidden behind Vault walls groaned with the effort, revealing a hidden compartment above him.

When the contents of that compartment were revealed, Blackwood felt his mind crack and his sanity begin to slip away…

* * *

Nick Valentine had been working away at the terminal for some time. Normally his synthetic brain could keep a fairly accurate account of the passage of time, yet the intensity in those moments demanded all his processing power. He had to breach that door.

Despite the thickness of the metal, Nick heard and inhuman screaming, a heart-twisting screech that chilled him to his very core, the howl of a beast in unbearable agony, in pain so intense that death would have been preferable.

The thing that frightened Nick the most about that scream was that it was undoubtedly Alexander Blackwood's voice.

"Come on, come on!" He hissed at the old Vault-Tec computer, fingers moving faster than any human's could, dancing across the keys. "Just hold on!" Nick shouted at the door, "Alexander! I'll be there in a second! Just hold on!"

Several more strings of code were safely deleted, more possibilities were eliminated. Sure enough, when Nick entered the word, "Remember" into the computer, the lock-out ended, and the terminal displayed a solitary message.

"Well done, Detective.-P"

Nick didn't dwell on the ominous warning long, instead triggering the program that opened the vault door.

With his 44 in hand, Nick entered the next room, ready for anything. Despite his preparation, and the inhuman nature of his heart, Nick was well and truly shocked by what he saw.

"Holy shit."

Alexander Blackwood lay curled up in the fetal position, babbling quietly under his breath between dry heaves and raking sobs. The air smelt of blood, burnt wire and vomit. The general continued weeping and babbling, unaware of Nick's presence, and the Synth could see why.

She was hanging from the ceiling.

Nora, Alexander's beloved wife, her body perfectly preserved by the cryogenic freeze that had trapped both for so long, was on display. Her wrists had been pierced with meat hooks and attached to chains that dangled her limp corpse from the ceiling. She was naked, not afforded the decency of covering.

Pickman had defiled the corpse. Every patch of her once snowy white skin had been carved with a blade. Edict runes and nonsensical patterns had been etched into her flesh with a jagged knife, leaving nothing untouched. The blood that had once been Nora's source of life had been drained and used to paint the macabre painting that hung behind her on a chain of its own. That painting was of a savage man with a machete who looked very much like a bestial, wolfish version of Alexander Blackwood.

Nick hesitated only for a moment before rushing over to his friend's side. "I'm here pal, I've got you." Nick fell to his knees beside his friend, "I'm right here." He grabbed the general, and pulled him tightly against his chest. Alexander wept into Nick's chest, clinging to the Synth for dear life.

"I couldn't save her Nick," he babbled, "It's like I've lost her all over again…how could I let this happen to my Nora?" He heaved but his vomit had been spent long ago. "How could I let this happen?"  
Nick gripped the general tighter, "It wasn't your fault, none of this was." He grabbed Alexander's face and forced it up to his own, looking the general in his eyes, "We'll take care of Nora, and we'll get the bastard who did this to her." The Detective's hand closed around the general's, "Hang on, hang on to me, hang on to her memory, hang on for all those people who need you."

"I can't do it Nick, I can't."

"Yes you can. You're strong. Stronger than anyone I know."

"I just…"

"You've always been there for me, now let me be there for you. Let me be your strength now."

"I can't look at her like this, Nick," Alexander whispered, "I just can't."

"Don't look, just close your eyes while I get her down." Nick turned the weakened man away from the grisly spectacle, readying himself for the task at hand. It was unpleasant but there was no way around it.

With the synthetic accuracy endowed by his creators, Nick put one bullet, than another, through the two chains that held Nora's corpse aloft. The body fell hard to the ground, but she was down. With gentle reverence, Nick removed the meat hooks from Nora's wrists and threw them away. He folded her hands over her heart and softly closed her eyes. If it was not for the horrific damage done to her body Nora may have simply been sleeping.

Taking off his old trenchcoat, Nick gently lay it across Nora's body, hiding her scarred remains beneath. "I'm sorry this happened to you," he told her simply, "I wish I could have done more." He paused, "You're so important to Alexander and that makes you important to me." It felt odd saying such words to a corpse, but he said them anyway.

Nick gently took Alexander by the shoulder and led him towards the shrouded form. Her long dark hair hadn't been covered by Nick's coat, instead splayed out behind her head like a halo. Alexander fell to his knees besides her limp body, shaking as he did. "I'm sorry baby, I didn't want any of this to happen." He cradled the corpse in his arms, pushing the coat down just enough to see her face; Nick wanted to advise against it, Pickman hadn't spared Nora's face, but Alexander needed this.

He kissed his wife's cold forehead, ignoring the scars covering it. "I know, I know you don't blame me, but that doesn't make it easier." Alexander stroked her hair, rocking the corpse like she was merely asleep, "I wished you could see what we've built, that you could have met our son." He laughed, his voice ragged and hollow, clearly teetering on the edge of sanity, "He's not even our son really, this goddamn world ripped him away from us too." Fresh tears ran down the general's scarred cheeks, "I had to kill him, Nora. I had to kill our real, flesh and blood son." He shook his head, tears flowing freely, "I put a bullet in the back of his head as I tore down what he'd built. I can never undo what I did. Never." He pressed his forehead against hers, his own eyes closed, "All I can do is make sure it wasn't for nothing. That boy trapped here is my son, even if he's not blood. You taught me family is more than that."

Alexander reverently lay his wife's corpse down, kissing her again softly, "I'll get this son of a bitch, Nora, I'll get him, and I'll bring our son home. I'll bring you home."

As he pulled the old trenchcoat over her eyes, Alexander looked back at Nick Valentine, "Are we going to take her out of here?"

Nick nodded solemnly, "After this is over, we'll take Nora out of here."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Alexander Blackwood got shakily to his feet, dabbing his reddened eyes with the edge of his tattered coat. He grit his teeth and brushed his fingers mercilessly across the well-worn handle of his revolver.

Someone would pay for this and that payment would be in blood.

* * *

Porter Gage had had his fill of Vaults, he'd had his fill of the creepy asshole in the suit and he'd had his fill of Synths. Ever since X6-88 had dropped him before the room Cait was in and told him to guard it, Gage had remained alone. He'd remained despite the pangs of long-buried guilt and the deeper, more primal instinct of fear. It had been easy enough and plenty safe, especially considering what his fellow raiders were likely experiencing and yet Gage couldn't help but feel like bait in a trap.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been set up, led to the slaughter like rat in a maze. There wasn't any practical reason for leaving him here. Cait hadn't made a peep in hours; no one could find this Vault, there wasn't a reason for him to be here.

Hell, he should have run hours ago, he knew it. He could slip away and be halfway to the Pitt before anyone knew better. Sure the slaves there had overthrown the last batch of raiders who'd run the joint but they wouldn't know him from a hole in the ground.

Yet it was a fear of the suited man, the dark predator that held him at bay. Gage knew his fear of the mysterious man would keep him in place far longer than it should have. He'd serve the whims of the monster in the suit, even if he wasn't sure why he'd been kept here. He couldn't escape, couldn't get away; nothing he did would ever outrun the monster who'd caught him in his web.

It wasn't until the cold steel of the gunmetal pressed against the back of his head that he realized that perhaps he was a sacrificial lamb after all.

"Give me one good reason not to blow your goddamn head off right now," Alexander Blackwood growled in Gage's ear.

To his horror the raider realized he couldn't think of one.

* * *

 _Alexander Blackwood's Journal_

 _Notlikethis_

 _Shewouldn'twantitlikethis_

 _WhatifIcannotholdonanymore?_

 _I'm scared._

* * *

 **AN:** Sorry for the delay. No excuses here. We're getting near the end of the ride now! Not much left. Hang on tight!


End file.
